


To Be A King

by clotpolesonly



Series: Merlin Ambrosius, King of Carthis [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Royalty, BAMF Merlin, Canonical Character Death, Dragonlord Merlin, Gen, King Merlin - Freeform, LLF Comment Project, Magical kingdom, Merlin's Magic Revealed, Original setting, Royal!Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 127,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3610755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clotpolesonly/pseuds/clotpolesonly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Merlin discovers that his father was an estranged prince and he himself is now the only heir to the throne of a magical kingdom, he is forced to leave Camelot for the perils of a royal court. Will Merlin be able to win Arthur's favor again before Morgana launches an attack on a defenseless Camelot? Will he be able to defend his own kingdom at the same time or will all be lost?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I began working on this story in maybe 2012. I wrote two chapters and then hit an 8 month long writer's block. I churned out the bulk of it over NaNoWriMo of 2013, and then I spent another 7 months embroiled in writer's block. Finally got back on the horse and got to the end of it in October of 2014 and posted the whole thing on fanfiction.net.
> 
> I never posted it on here because I didn't quite feel like it was finished. Five months later, I've finally gone through it and done some good revision. I don't know if I'm 100% satisfied with it, but I'll never get around to writing the sequel if I never declare this one done. So here is me putting the finishing touches on this 2-3 year long project and pushing my baby out into the world, for real this time.
> 
> Now with THE MOST BEAUTIFUL (animated wow) artwork by [dawn-rot](http://dawn-rot.tumblr.com/)!!! It's in chapter 23, btw, with a link directly to their post. Go give them some love!!

Merlin tugged absentmindedly on the hem of his shirt sleeve, just to give his hands something to do that wouldn’t draw attention to him. He stood where he always did in such meetings as these: by the pillar behind the throne, hands behind his back and head tilted slightly downward in the way of the proper servant. Arthur, of course, knew this image to be completely misleading, but Merlin knew he appreciated the effort made to at least  _ appear  _ subservient when there were guests in the court.

The guests at this time were a pair of careworn peasants hailing from a village on the border of a kingdom to the east who claimed to have been attacked by a dragon and had come to seek Arthur’s help in their plight.

As soon as the word “dragon” was out of the older peasant’s mouth, Merlin’s attention was caught. There were only two dragons in existence, to Merlin’s rather informed knowledge, and he had a personal connection with the both of them. Kilgharrah, he knew, was under strict orders not to attack anyone and, according to the bond forged between them by magic and kinship, he could not disobey a direct order from his Dragonlord. The only other dragon was Aithusa, whom he knew to be sickly and unfortunately in the charge of Morgana. If Morgana was sending Aithusa to attack this village, there had to be a purpose to it; it was not Morgana’s way to simply wreak havoc, not unless it brought her closer to her goal of becoming Queen of Camelot. Either way, Merlin was relatively confident in his ability to turn Aithusa away from his task if need be. He would just need to get there.

Luckily for the clandestine Dragonlord, Arthur—who, as far as anyone else knew, was the only person alive to have single-handedly slain a dragon—immediately took up the peasants’ plea for help, sure that he would be able to rout the beast and save the town without trouble. Turning to Merlin, he ordered for the Knights of the Round Table to be gathered and the horses to be made ready by the next morning.

Merlin gave him a slight bow for the sake of propriety, and then met Gaius’ concerned and cautioning stare before slipping quietly from the throne room to attend to his duties. He would have to find a way to sneak off and stop Aithusa without Arthur being any the wiser, but he shouldn’t have any trouble with that. He’d had plenty of practice, of course.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sir Gerund ran his hand wearily over his face, just barely holding in a heavy sigh; he had been sighing far too often lately and it wasn’t doing his flagging morale any favors. He rested his gaze on the window to his left, only barely able to make out the movement of people in the courtyard below through the bright colors of the brilliantly stained glass. The harsh sound of someone clearing his throat drew his attention to the open door of the chamber, where one of the most conservative of the senior council members stood with his hands clasped before him and his face grim.

“There has been another sighting,” he said plainly. “To the west this time.”

“Did she engage us?” Gerund asked, not needing to ask to whom he was referring and fearing the number of casualties that a positive answer would herald.

“No,” the councilor reported, and Gerund’s shoulders slumped in relief. The councilor stepped closer, his long robe make a soft shushing noise over the stone floor. “She is growing bolder, Sir Gerund.”

“I know,” he said.

“We are running out of time. I don’t know how much longer we can entertain this fool hope of yours,” the councilor said harshly and Gerund winced. “Sooner or later, a choice will have to be made. And her continued presence may force our hand.”

The councilor left without waiting for a response, his point made, and Gerund fought the urge to sigh again. All the councilors were growing anxious, though not as anxious as the common people.  They grew more restless by the day.

Almost oppressively silent as the empty council chamber was around him, he nearly had a heart attack when there came a loud, sharp tapping on the window. Shaking his head at his own foolish fright, Gerund moved to pull open the window and let in the crow perched upon the sill. His heart leapt up at the sight of the slip of parchment tied to its leg, though he tried to quash his hope; why should this message bear different tidings than the last five had?

Gerund untied the tiny scroll and tossed the bird back outside. Closing the window and taking a deep breath to steel his resolve for the disappointment that would surely accompany this missive, he unfurled the message. His brow furrowed as he read it, and then a brilliant smile spread across his face.

The King of Camelot had taken up his peasants’ plea. Gerund recalled that it had been he, the then-Prince Arthur, who had reportedly slain the Great Dragon so many years ago. Kilgharrah was, however, very much alive and settled comfortably in the wilderness surrounding the castle in which Gerund now stood. This could only mean one thing: the last Dragonlord was in Camelot, and he would answer Gerund’s call as surely as had his King.


	2. Chapter 1

“Arthur,” Mordred called from his position in the midst of the riding party. “You seem very confident that we will be able to kill this dragon,” he said, sounding rather skeptical of their chances. He shot a sidelong look at Merlin, who studiously avoided his catching his eye.

Merlin didn’t see why Mordred had had to come on this trip, or why Arthur had allowed it. Mordred had only been a knight for a scant few weeks; surely he was not yet trusted enough to be considered a Knight of the Round Table. And yet here he was, riding alongside Sir Leon as if he had every right to be there. No one else seemed to share Merlin’s reluctance to incorporate Mordred, though, so he didn’t bother to say anything about it.

“I have killed a dragon before, I see no reason why I should not be able to do so again,” Arthur said dismissively.

Again Mordred looked to Merlin, brow furrowed.

“Of course,” Arthur went on, “at the time, I was led to believe that that was the last dragon in existence. Now, however, we have evidence that Morgana has a dragon at her command. We discovered that to our detriment at Ismere. I’m assuming she is behind this.”

“How did you accomplish it, my Lord?” Mordred asked. “Defeating the dragon, I mean. Dragons are immensely powerful magical creatures. They are not easily slain.”

Arthur opened his mouth to tell Mordred in detail how he had bested the Great Dragon but, upon realizing that he could not actually remember much about the confrontation itself, he turned expectantly to his servant. Put on the spot, Merlin mouthed silently for a moment, trying to think up something to say that would mollify the curious knights, only one of whom had actually been in Camelot at the time of the attack.

“Uh…he, er…he dealt it a mortal blow,” he said lamely, glancing around at them all. “With a spear. To the heart, I think. Let out a big roar, it was bleeding all over the place. Then it flew off. Couldn’t have survived with the amount of blood it was losing, not for long.”

Most of the knights nodded and looked suitably impressed at the feat, but Mordred just stared at Merlin suspiciously, eyes narrowing. The two villagers who had requested their aid, flanked by knights on all sides for safety purposes, were also looking inquisitively at him for some reason. It made him feel uncomfortably exposed. Merlin hastily faced forward again to avoid the eyes.

“How much further do we have to go?” Merlin asked quickly, wanting to change the subject as much as to find out the answer, and trying to keep from sounding like he was whining. Which he sort of was.

They had been riding for two days practically nonstop and Merlin still maintained that he didn’t have any of the helpful padding that Arthur did to keep his bottom from becoming sore on long rides like this. Not that he was going to say that; he did _not_ want to start _that_ conversation again. Arthur always got so touchy where his weight was concerned.

“Tibalt says we should reach the village by nightfall,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes and gesturing back to the older of the two villagers. “You will be able to rest your aching backside in an hour or two, Merlin, don’t you worry.”

“Rest?” Merlin grumbled under his breath. “Since when do I get to rest? As soon as we stop it’ll be ‘Go tend to the horses, Merlin,’ ‘Go set up the campsite, Merlin,’ ‘Go cook us all dinner, Merlin,’ ‘Go get firewood, Merlin.’ Yes, rest is definitely something that’s going to happen.”

“Did you have something to say, Merlin?”

“No, of course not, Sire.”

“Good, because no one wants to listen to you complain anyway.”

“Nah, the complaining’s your job.”

“I can complain as much as I want to, Merlin, I’m the King.”

“That’s just your excuse for everything, isn’t it?”

“ _Mer_ lin.”

“Well, it _is_.”

Arthur’s irritated and no doubt stunningly clever retort was cut off by the appearance of a cloaked figure out of the shade of the trees ahead of them. Arthur and Merlin, at the head of the procession of knights, pulled their horses to a hasty stop and stared at the new arrival with surprise and no small amount of suspicion.

The man reached up and removed the cowl of his dark blue cloak, revealing a weathered but kindly face with sharp, dark eyes under a thick mop of close-cropped graying hair. He appeared to be wearing a white tunic and black breeches under his cloak and he had an unadorned sword at his hip, but he did not reach for it. Instead he held up his hands.

“Who are you?” Arthur asked in his most ringing, kingly voice. “State your business here.”

“My name is Gerund,” the man answered. His voice was gravelly, hoarse, as if he spent much of his time shouting. “I swear on my life that I mean you no harm, King Arthur.”

Even though the man was addressing Arthur, his gaze had locked with Merlin’s, who stared back at him through eyes narrowed with mistrust.

“What business do you have here?” Arthur asked again. “Why have you stopped us?”

“It was I who sent Tibalt and Thalia to you,” Gerund said.

When their names were spoken, the two peasants spurred their horses forward around Arthur and Merlin, smiling and waving to the cloaked man in greeting. He nodded to them with a smile of his own and the villagers rode past him in the direction of their town, leaving the knights behind completely.

“You are from the village under attack?” Arthur questioned, demeanor much more serious as he slid off his horse’s back. Merlin followed suit, watching the man closely. “What can you tell me of this dragon?”

“Kilgharrah has done us no harm,” Gerund said with a gentle smile.

Merlin took a step back before you could stop himself, more taken aback than he could ever remember being in his life; this man knew the Great Dragon by his true name. Merlin had never known anyone besides Gaius and Balinor who had known Kilgharrah by his name, rather than by the title he had been given. He was hard pressed to keep his shock from showing on his face.

“I regret to say that I may have led you here under false pretenses,” Gerund continued. “But then again, in all honesty, it was not _you_ whom I was leading.”

He again turned his gaze to Merlin, eyes bright, and said, “You are the spitting image your father.”

Merlin suddenly forgot how to breathe. His father? This man had known his father? Merlin had long since given up hope of ever having more than a name and a face for his father, but now he felt a spark of that hope rekindling in his stomach. He dropped the reins of his horse and moved forward, ignoring the noises of protest that came from behind him, eyes fixed intensely on Gerund’s face.

“You…you knew my father?” he breathed hesitantly, not sure whether this stranger, who had led them out on a wild dragon-chase, could really be believed in matters such as this but praying desperately for it to be true all the same.

“In my youth, we were the best of friends,” Gerund said, nostalgia pulling the corners of his mouth up into a little grin. He stared at Merlin for a beat of silence, examining his face as though to memorize it. “You look so like him back then.”

Merlin could not help the tears prickling the backs of his eyes or the small elated smile that crept onto his face at this.

“You led us here under the guise of a dragon attack just to speak to Merlin?” Arthur demanded incredulously, snapping Merlin out of his surprised daze as he stormed forward to push Merlin behind him once more.

Merlin glanced back around as he remembered the pack of knights at his back, all of whom were glaring at this stranger; Merlin could feel their protectiveness like a physical entity as they rallied around their little brother-in-arms, as they often called him. As much as Merlin appreciated their concern most of the time, at the moment it was getting in the way of possibly learning about his father and he was less than pleased by it.

Not that his displeasure meant a damn thing to Arthur.

“Who exactly are you,” the King snapped, “and what is the meaning of this?”

“My apologies, your majesty,” Gerund said diffidently, bowing respectfully toward Arthur and the knights. “I am Sir Gerund, Foremost Mage of Carthis. I am sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused you, but I am in urgent need of Merlin’s help.”

Merlin’s eyes widened slightly in alarm; the only people who had ever sought his help were those who had known of his magic and been in need of the power he could wield. He could not let this man, this _mage_ , blunder on and reveal the secret he had worked so hard to _keep_ secret for the last eleven years of his life. Concentrating, Merlin cast his thoughts out toward him.

 _Arthur and the knights do not know of my abilities,_ he thought frantically. _Please, they cannot be allowed to know. Whatever business you may have with me, it must be undertaken without the King’s knowledge._

Gerund quirked an eyebrow at him quizzically before Arthur’s voice called him back to attention.

“You need Merlin’s help? _Merlin_?” Arthur repeated skeptically before barking a laugh. “What could you possibly need with Merlin?”

Merlin couldn’t help the slight scowl that crossed his face, though he knew Arthur had no reason to believe him capable of providing much aid to anyone, especially not a mage such as Gerund. He didn’t have to sound quite that disbelieving, though. It was insulting.

Gerund hesitated, obviously trying to think of a way to procure Merlin’s services without telling Arthur exactly what those services might be.

“It has to do with Merlin’s father,” he settled on. “I believe it to be a conversation best held in private,” he added, looking to Merlin, who nodded.

Merlin made to cross to the mage, but Arthur grabbed the arm and pulled him back before he had gone so much as two steps.

“Merlin, what in the world do you think you’re doing?” he hissed, but Merlin knew him well enough to detect the underlying concern. “I may not be very knowledgeable in things such as these, but I know well enough that ‘mage’ is another term for ‘sorcerer.’ There is no way I’m I am going to let you go wandering off alone with him.”

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered. “He knew my father.”

He looked to his friend imploringly, hoping that he would remember the conversation they had had many years ago over a campfire in the woods, both of them lamenting the parent they had never known and wishing fervently for the chance to know more. Merlin had envied Arthur the rare opportunity he had been offered, despite the offer having been made by a manipulative and ill-intentioned witch, to see the mother he had not known, to speak with her.

Merlin had made no move to dissuade Arthur from his chosen path then, and so Arthur could not deny him this, not without making himself a hypocrite, and he willed Arthur to remember that. Obviously he did, and it must have galled him greatly to do so, because Arthur scowled heavily but released Merlin’s arm anyway.

“Be careful, Merlin,” he said heatedly. “We don’t know anything about this man except that he’s a sorcerer, and sorcerers are not to be trusted, no matter what they promise you. This is a dangerous path to take; you would do well to remember the consequences of the last time something like this happened.”

As always, Merlin had to push down the pang in his heart at hearing Arthur speak so acidly about his kin—although he had to concede the point seeing as the last time had ended with Arthur nearly killing his own father—but he nodded anyway.

“I have to try,” he insisted. “Please, I just…I have to know.”

“I know,” Arthur sighed, visibly deflating. “Just be careful.”

With a final nod, Merlin crossed to Gerund’s side. The mage turned to the King and his knights.

“My camp is just through these trees if you would like to share my fire for the night. I’m sure Thalia and Tibalt would be happy to provide a meal for you before they return to their village,” he said hospitably, gesturing in the direction the villagers had gone.

Merlin saw Arthur’s jaw clench as he tried to decide whether it was worth it to share a camp with a sorcerer if it allowed him to stay closer to his servant. Finally, he jerked a reluctant nod and remounted his horse. He took up the reins of Merlin’s mare and tied them to his own, and then led the knights past them without a backward glance.

Merlin watched them ride away, meeting Mordred’s curious gaze directly this time. He wondered if his telepathic message had been broadcast into the Druid’s mind as well as Gerund’s, but it didn’t really matter if it had. Mordred, of course, knew of his magic and his destiny. He did not, however, know of Merlin’s father or his Dragonlord abilities. No one but Gaius knew of those.

Once the knights were out of sight, Gerund made no move to speak and instead led the way toward the camp as well. Merlin fell in step beside him, trying to observe the mage without being conspicuous about it.

He had said that he was from Carthis. Merlin was sure he had heard the name before, but he couldn’t remember much about the kingdom other than that it was not an ally of Camelot. There was no open hostility between the kingdoms at the moment, but they weren’t on good terms. He supposed this was the reason for that.

Sir Gerund, Foremost Mage of Carthis. _Sir_ Gerund. That sounded like being a mage in Carthis was the equivalent of being a knight in Camelot. Which would mean that magic was legal there. Merlin felt as though he should have heard of such a place before now, but maybe the stigma attached to all matters surrounding magic kept gossip about such a kingdom to a minimum within Camelot’s borders.

Now that Merlin was close enough, he saw that Gerund’s cloak bore a small symbol stitched into the blue fabric on the right side of the breast—two serpentine dragons entwined around each other and each emitting a burst of flame which melded together to encircle the dragons completely, all embroidered in golden thread. The royal seal of Carthis, he assumed. He felt like he had seen that somewhere before as well but couldn’t remember where exactly. Probably on some sort of official document left on Arthur’s desk at some point.

Gerund didn’t seem like he intended to start his conversation while they walked, which suited Merlin just fine. His head was still spinning. This man claimed to have known his father. Of course, Merlin didn’t have any proof of that just yet. Balinor’s name had not even been mentioned. He could only be grateful for that, though, as Arthur would surely have recognized the name as that of the Dragonlord they had gone in search of so many years ago, and Leon as well. It would have raised a lot of questions that Merlin wouldn’t have been able to answer truthfully, and making up and delivering convincing lies on the spot really took a toll on him.

It may have been a risk going with this stranger, but much like Arthur following Morgause’s instructions on the hint about his mother, Merlin _had to know_. If this man could tell him anything at all about his father, then he would follow him anywhere. Besides, even if Arthur didn’t know it, Merlin was far from unable to defend himself against one man, sorcerer though he may be. He was perfectly capable of holding his own against just about any foe that he could imagine.

The two of them reached the camp to see the knights clustered together by the horses and looking vastly uncomfortable with the situation they had found themselves in. Well, most of them were. Mordred and Gwaine looked perfectly at ease talking to Thalia and Tibalt around the campfire. They were chatting and smiling and eating stew out of rough bowls. The others had bowls in their hands as well, but they all looked much more hesitant to eat from them, no matter that _Gerund_ was the sorcerer, not Tibalt or Thalia.

Merlin rolled his eyes at the blatant suspicion on Arthur’s face before following Gerund to a tent set up on the outskirts of the small camp. Gerund held open the tent flap for him and ushered him inside. He let it fall shut behind them and whispered something that made the seams of the tent shimmer golden for a second before fading away. The chatter from the camp was silenced immediately and Merlin nodded in approval; he recognized enough of the words to know that it was a silencing spell to prevent eavesdropping and, knowing Arthur, it would probably be a good thing.

Gerund turned to face him and beckoned for him to sit in one of the rickety wooden chairs arranged haphazardly around a small table which bore nothing more than a few lit candles. Merlin sat where indicated and looked up expectantly at the mage, who was pacing and seemed to be gathering his wits about him. After a brief moment of indecision, Gerund sat down in a chair opposite Merlin but he still did not speak. Merlin decided to break the silence himself.

“Did you really know my father?” he asked.

“Balinor was my best friend when I was a boy,” Gerund said.

Merlin let out a silent sigh of relief at the confirmation that this man had not simply mistaken him for someone else, that he really did know who Merlin’s father was, that he finally had someone who could tell him about the man his father had been before his banishment.

“Tell me about him,” he all but begged, sitting forward in his seat.

Gerund looked at him strangely, raising an eyebrow.

“I was hoping you would be able to tell me,” he admitted. “I had not seen nor heard from Balinor in over twenty years when news reached us of his death. I was hoping to know where he settled down, why it was that he never tried to get back into contact with us.” He hesitated again, a strained sort of look on his face now. “Merlin, what all do you know of your father?”

“Just that he was a Dragonlord,” Merlin told him, looking down at his hands in his lap, picking at a chipped fingernail morosely. “That he was betrayed by Uther Pendragon and banished from Camelot, then pursued beyond its borders and driven into hiding. He didn’t even know I existed until Arthur and I sought him out when Kilgharrah was attacking Camelot and we were in desperate need of his help. To be fair, though, I didn’t know about him until then either. My mother raised me on her own.”

“You do not know where your father came from then?” Gerund asked slowly.

Merlin furrowed his brow, trying to remember if his mother or Gaius had ever told him anything about his father’s past, about anything earlier than his flight from Camelot to Ealdor.

“No,” he admitted. “Since he was banished from Camelot, I just assumed that he came from there. I guess I was wrong. Was he from Carthis?” He looked up at the mage curiously, almost hoping that his answer would be in the negative.

If his father had been from a kingdom where magic was free, then why he would not have returned there after he had been banished from Camelot? Surely Uther couldn’t have pursued him into a rival kingdom, not during the Purge when his intentions towards magic were so blatantly aggressive. Balinor could have taken Hunith—and thereby Merlin—with him back to his kingdom. Merlin could have grown up free and happy and unashamed of who and what he was. But Balinor hadn’t done that.

“He was,” Gerund confirmed, but it sounded as though there was more he wasn’t saying. “Merlin, do you know much about Dragonlords?”

Merlin shook his head. He only knew what he had managed to figure out on his own since his father had died and he’d had the abilities thrust upon him, which really wasn’t very much at all, and he told the mage as much.

Gerund shifted in his seat, looking a bit discomfited, like this was an unexpected development and he was not quite sure how to proceed. Merlin waited patiently for him to figure out what it was that he wanted to say.

“Dragonlords,” he said eventually, “as may be expected from the title, have traditionally been considered nobility.”

Merlin’s eyebrows shot up.

“Really?”

“Of course,” Gerund said. “Dragonlord. Dragon- _lord_. Those families with the ability have always been noble.”

“My father was a Carthisian nobleman?” Merlin asked in disbelief.

“Well, not exactly…”he responded. He ran a hand tiredly over his face and let out a sigh. Then he faced Merlin head on, straightening his shoulders, and spoke much more firmly, apparently needing to get whatever he had to say out as quickly as possible and be done with it.

“I don’t see any way to put this gently, Merlin, so I’ll just come out and say it: your father was the Crown Prince of Carthis.”

Merlin gaped at Gerund in what was sure to be a very unflattering fashion for several seconds before he found his voice again.

“ _What_?” he tried to shout, but it came out more as of a squeak than anything else. “P-Prince? Prince of Carthis?” he spluttered.

Gerund nodded.

“My father was a prince? A prince, as in, supposed to be a king?”

He nodded again.

Merlin continued to stare blankly at him, unable to wrap his head around the information he had just been given. Questions swirled too quickly through his head for him to be able to make sense of any of them. He latched on to the first one that he could and blurted it out.

“Then…why wasn’t he? King, I mean. Why did he go to Camelot? Why would he leave his kingdom behind to live in a different one?”

“Your father was never fond of his title. He did not look forward to wearing the crown,” Gerund said, his tone somewhere between sad and fond. “He was far too carefree for the responsibilities placed upon him. He was the youngest of three—he had two older sisters—and they often sought to shelter him from the politics of the court, to let him have his childhood for as long as possible.”

He smiled, a little grin that spoke of nostalgic yearnings and youthful remembrances. Then his smile faltered.

“But his father, King Renor, was struck ill when Balinor was only eighteen years,” he said. “The King died in just a few short days. Balinor hadn’t expected that he would need to take the throne at such a young age, and certainly he didn’t believe himself capable of ruling at that time. He wasn’t prepared for it, had not even been given time to come to grips with the fact that his father had passed away. Terrified at the prospect of having to take over the ruling of an entire kingdom, Balinor begged his oldest sister Theanor to take the crown in his stead.

“It was…unorthodox, to say the least, but she was the eldest child, so she had a legal claim of her own, and she was next in line for the regency. Balinor formally relinquished his right to the throne and handed it over to Theanor, and she was crowned Queen shortly thereafter.

Gerund shook his head.

“Theanor and his other sister Eleanor, along with the council and the rest of the kingdom, were not best pleased with his decision. Eleanor would not speak to him for days. Many of the people thought him a coward for his refusal.”

The muscle ticking in his jaw told Merlin exactly what Gerund thought of that.

“They began to lose faith in him,” Gerund said, looking very old and tired in that moment. “He couldn’t take the disapproval pouring in from all sides, I suppose. Balinor took the dragon with whom he was most familiar—Kilgharrah—and left the kingdom a few weeks later. We heard very little from him after that, and nothing at all after Uther instigated his Purge, until news reached us that he had been killed.”

Merlin had his face buried in his hands by this point, his elbows resting on his knees. He struggled to comprehend Gerund’s tale and reconcile it with the Balinor he had known so briefly. He tried to picture the bitter man he had met with an untroubled smile on his face, dressed in silks and velvets with a circlet of gold on his head and a jeweled sword at his hip, but it was so far removed from anything he had ever tried to imagine before that the image just wouldn’t come to his mind.

And Merlin had not even _started_ trying to come to grips with the implications of what Gerund was telling him. His father had been a prince. His father was supposed to have been a king. That would mean _Merlin_ was technically a prince as well, legally unacknowledged and illegitimate though he may be. As far as blood was concerned, Merlin was a Prince of Carthis.

“You didn’t know any of this?” Gerund asked.

Merlin shook his head, the motion rather impeded by the hands still covering his face.

“I told you, I never really knew Balinor,” Merlin said miserably. “I met him only briefly just before he died.”

He heard the creaking of Gerund’s chair as the man leaned toward him and he glanced up to see the mage looking pained and curious at the same time.

“How did…how did Balinor die?” he asked tentatively, like he wasn’t quite sure he truly wanted to know but felt the need to ask anyway. “All we heard in Carthis was that the last Dragonlord was dead and the Great Dragon had been slain by Prince Arthur of Camelot. Obviously, Kilgharrah was not killed, we knew that much within weeks. I guess it was silly of me to hold onto the hope that maybe Balinor’s death had been exaggerated as well.”

Gerund looked away, embarrassed at his own foolish sentimentality, but Merlin knew that fool’s hope better than anyone.

“When Kilgharrah was attacking Camelot,” he said, “King Uther sent Arthur out to search for Balinor and bring him to our aid.” He chuckled a bit, scrubbing a hand down his face tiredly. “I was so angry that no one had ever bothered to _tell me_ my father was still alive. No one had ever even given me a name; it was apparently too painful for my mother to talk about and I never wanted to press her on it.”

Never mind how painful it had been for _him_ to grow up wishing and wondering, but he had buried that hurt a long time ago. It certainly wouldn’t help to dwell on it now, when he was finally getting all the answers he’d ever wanted, even if they were a far cry from anything he’d imagined as a child.

“Anyway,” Merlin said. “Arthur and I tracked him down and found him living in a cave in a forest in Lot’s kingdom, where he’d been for years. When we told him why we had come, that we needed his help, he said he wouldn’t help Uther Pendragon, not after what happened the last time he had gone to the man’s aid. He said that Camelot should be left to reap its rewards for the injustices dealt by its King.

“It wasn’t until I said that Gaius had claimed he was a good man and I had hoped Balinor would be more like him that he gave in and agreed to come back with us, for the people’s sake and definitely not for Uther’s.”

“Ah, Gaius,” Gerund interjected, smiling. “That old coot is still alive?”

“He has been my guardian in Camelot for eleven years now,” Merlin told him, smiling back. “You know him?”

“He came around Carthis a few times when he was a much younger man,” the mage said. “To compare methods with our own healers. Even back then he was legend. One of the best physicians around and a dab hand at healing spells as well. Tell me he’s still practicing.”

“Medicine, yes. Magic, not so much,” Merlin said. “He is Camelot’s Court Physician. Uther spared Gaius’ life in the Great Purge because he swore never to practice sorcery again. Now, Arthur may be a better man than his father ever was, but under the law Gaius could still be hanged simply for knowingly harboring a sorcerer—namely, _me_. Gaius was the one to tell me that Balinor was my father. He failed to mention, however, that my father was a bloody _prince_ ,” Merlin added, grumbling.

Gerund chuckled, but he gestured for Merlin to continue with the story he had been telling before they had gotten sidetracked by the familiar name.

“So I had managed to convince Balinor to return to Camelot with us,” Merlin said. “I realized that he didn’t know about me, that he didn’t know that he had a son at all. It took me a while to work up the courage to tell him, honestly,” he said with a sheepish shrug, remembering how he’d agonized over it and almost backed out at the last moment.

He was glad he’d taken the leap.

“The next day we were attacked by a patrol of Cenred’s men. Balinor jumped in front of a sword that had been meant for me. He saved my life at the expense of his own.”

Merlin sniffed, blinking rapidly to clear away the gathering tears as he remembered how the sword had sunk into Balinor’s stomach, the way his body had jerked from the impact, the look on his face when he had realized what had happened. A glance up revealed that Gerund, too, had misty eyes. Sniffing again, Merlin wiped his eyes on his sleeve embarrassedly.

“He died in my arms. He had barely enough time to tell me that a dragon’s heart is on its right side, not its left, and that I would have to be strong when I faced Kilgharrah back in Camelot.”

“I could not have asked for a more honorable death for my friend,” Gerund said quietly, looking at Merlin with something like fondness. “There is nothing more noble than sacrificing oneself for one’s family.”

Merlin swallowed audibly around the lump in his throat and cast around quickly for something else to talk about.

“How did you know about me?” Merlin asked, as much out of honest curiosity as to change the subject to something less painful. “Even Balinor didn’t know he had a son. How could you possibly have known that I even existed, much less who I was?”

Gerund sat back in his seat and crossed one leg over the other, looking a tad bit smug.

“Is it not obvious?” he asked.

Merlin quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Our reports said that Kilgharrah had been killed,” Gerund said. “And yet, that year alone we had several sightings of him flying around the edges of the kingdom. I saw him myself a time or two. Obviously he was not dead. So why was the young Prince Arthur of Camelot being hailed as a dragonslayer?

“We weren’t too concerned with it at the time, mourning as we were for the loss of our own Prince—he could simply have been mistaken, or exaggerating his tale to make himself look better—but it came back into our minds when we heard tell of _another_ dragon.” Gerund spread his hands wide. “Kilgharrah was supposed to have been the last dragon in existence, so where had this one come from? If a new dragon had been hatched, then clearly there had to have been a Dragonlord to call it forth from its egg. So either Balinor was still alive and the rumors were wrong, or Balinor had left behind a son to carry on his legacy.”

“So you sent out villagers to tell us that you were being attacked by a dragon in the hopes that I would reveal myself?” Merlin asked, seeing the brilliance of the plan and impressed in spite of himself.

“Indeed. And you did,” Gerund pointed out, grinning. “If there were truly a Dragonlord out there, we knew that he wouldn’t be able to sit back and do nothing if one of his kin were doing harm to innocent villagers. I disliked the need for deception, but I admit I could think of no other way to contact you without first knowing of your identity. And no one in the whole of Albion seemed to know.”

“That’s because no one _does_ know,” Merlin shrugged. “It is the best kept of all of my numerous secrets. Only Gaius and I know, and he’s certainly not telling anyone. But earlier you said that you need my help with something,” he recalled. “If Kilgharrah and Aithusa are not causing you any trouble, then what could you need my help for?”

Gerund’s smile dropped and he looked vaguely apologetic for some reason. The expression put Merlin on edge and he found himself already dreading whatever the mage was going to say next.

“You will recall that Balinor gave his crown to his eldest sister, Theanor,” Gerund began.

Merlin nodded.

“Queen Theanor,” Gerund said gravely, “was killed by an assassin many years ago and, since she had no husband and no children, the crown passed to her closest remaining blood relative: Eleanor, Balinor’s other sister.”

He stopped to take a deep breath, grief briefly clouding his features.

“Last month, Queen Eleanor died in childbirth. Unfortunately, her daughter was born sickly and she did not last long without her mother.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Merlin said, sincere despite his confusion, “but what does that have to do with me?”

Gerund sighed again, obviously frustrated that Merlin was not seeing what he wanted him to see.

“Merlin, both of the Queens—your _aunts_ —died childless. Theanor never married and Eleanor’s husband predeceased her by three months, killed in a skirmish along the border to Mercia. Upon Eleanor’s death, in lieu of any named successor, the crown would have been passed back to her brother, _Balinor_.”

Merlin just stared, uncomprehending.

Gerund ran a hand through his hair in frustration at having to spell it out like this.

“Merlin, you are the one true heir to the throne of Carthis.”


	3. Chapter Two

Merlin didn’t respond for some time, unable to do anything but stare at him. After a long moment of shocked and disbelieving silence, he couldn’t stop the slightly hysterical laugh that bubbled up in his throat. Once he’d started laughing, he found he couldn’t stop. He laughed until there were tears in his eyes and he was doubled over holding onto his stomach and Gerund was looking at him as if worried for his sanity, but he couldn’t pull himself together. This was just too much, it was _far_ too much.

“I may be a lot of things, Gerund,” he gasped out, wiping at his streaming eyes, “but I am no prince. And I am _certainly_ no king.”

“Merlin,” Gerund said gently, leaning forward and eyeing him carefully. “I know this is a lot for you to take in—”

“Oh no,” Merlin cut across him sharply, still not having lost the hysterical edge to his voice. “No, being told I was a _Dragonlord_ : _that_ was a lot to take in. Being told I was _Emrys_ : _that_ was a lot to take in. Being told I was to be the most powerful sorcerer to _ever exist_ : _that_ was a lot to take in. Being told that I had a _destiny_ that would affect the _entire_ land:  _that_ was a lot to take in. But this? This is _madness_.”

He found that he was on his feet without ever having made the decision to stand up, and then he was pacing furiously around the perimeter of the tent, much too restless to sit still any longer. He hardly took note of Gerund’s stunned, almost awed look at the revelation that he was Emrys; he had become so used to the name over the years that he often forgot that he was supposed to be a legend, a story, a prophecy, not a real person.

The mage shook himself out of his daze after another moment and stood to face him.

“Carthis has been without a leader for nearly a month now,” he said, a slight urgency coloring his tone. “The people are getting worried. The nobles are beginning to vie for support, and it won’t be long before they get it. With the throne open like this, people are rushing to fill the power void, to claim the crown for themselves. The Council is handling things for now, but even they are getting desperate to choose a leader. Fighting could erupt any day now. The only reason it hasn’t already is the hope that we could find _you_ , the only person with a direct claim to the throne.”

“My claim could never be legitimate,” Merlin said immediately, latching on to what had been a source of shame for most of his life but which now seemed to be his saving grace. “I’m a bastard. I was born out of wedlock to a peasant woman from another kingdom. My claim would never stand!”

“Your parentage is proven beyond doubt by the abilities you inherited from your father,” Gerund contended. “That alone will be enough to legitimize your claim to his throne in the eyes of the people, if not the council.”

“I am not a King!” Merlin burst out, turning to stare at Gerund with barely concealed fear on his face. “I am a _servant_ to a King, and a mediocre one at that! I spend my days making beds and doing laundry and…and mucking stables, not signing treaties and dealing with noblemen. I know nothing about affairs of state. I could never rule over anything. The kingdom could be destroyed through sheer incompetence if I were to take the throne.”

“But the kingdom will almost certainly be destroyed if you don’t,” Gerund said fiercely.

This pulled Merlin up short, as did the determined light that was blazing in the mage’s eyes now.

“Carthis is threatening to fall apart, Merlin. With no clear heir, the kingdom will fall into chaos and anarchy. By the time someone finally seizes the throne and manages to hold it, there may not be a kingdom left to rule over. We need you, Merlin. Only with you can this end peacefully.”

Unable to stop himself from shaking, Merlin sank back into the chair he had vacated a moment before. He dropped his head into his hands again, trying to take slow, deep breaths in an attempt to keep himself from hyperventilating.

This could not be happening, it just couldn’t be. As if he didn’t already have enough responsibility on his shoulders! His life was plenty complicated as it was and this was the last thing that he needed right now. He felt Gerund place a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t find the gesture nearly as comforting as it was probably meant to be.

“This is overwhelming, Merlin,” Gerund said, more gently. “I knew that it would be. Even more so, in light of your ignorance of your heritage. This is a huge responsibility to put on you with no notice. Believe me, I would never ask this of you if the situation were not grave.”

Merlin nodded as best he could with his head cradled in his hands.

Merlin understood the dangers of a leaderless kingdom, as much as he wished he didn’t. When Cenred had been killed, Escetia had fallen into disarray, torn apart by factions and warlords and ambitious nobles and outside forces all wishing to claim it for themselves. There had been several people on the throne within the span of a few short weeks, all of whom had either been deposed or assassinated within days of their coronation.

When Lot had finally claimed the throne and held it, it had done very little to calm the people. Stability had yet to be returned to that land, even four years later. The kingdom was still considerably poorer and more fragile than it had been, and her people were impoverished, restless and insecure to this day. The death of a monarch had lasting effects on his kingdom even when he had an heir to succeed him. Without, the damage could be irreversible.

“I know that you will need some time to come to terms with this, and to make your decision,” Gerund said.

Merlin looked up at him in surprise, and the mage smiled slightly at him.

“It is still your decision, Merlin. I will not blame you if you refuse, and I will not force you to come with me. Either way, whatever decision you make, I want for you to have this.”

The mage reached into a pocket of his cloak and pulled out a ring, holding it out to Merlin.

“You will always be welcome in Carthis. And your claim will stand.”

Merlin took the ring from him with a trembling hand. It was a sigil ring emblazoned with the royal seal of Carthis. It had obviously been made with magic, much too fine and detailed to have been forged by hand alone, no matter how skilled the craftsman. The two small dragons twined around each other, each with every minute scale distinct and gleaming, and with intricate flames roaring from their mouths to encircle the band in a wreath of fire.

Turning the ring over in his fingers, Merlin felt a shiver of recognition, stronger than he had felt when he had seen the crest on Gerund’s cloak.

With a jolt, Merlin was suddenly seeing not the inside of Gerund’s tent, but an image of his mother, younger and smiling and with an identical ring strung on a cord around her neck. He very nearly dropped the ring in his shock. His mother had worn that ring around her neck for years when he was a child, as far back as he could remember. Then she had taken it off one day when he was ten years old and put it away. Merlin hadn’t seen it again after that and he had quite forgotten about it until now.

Glancing up, Merlin realized that Gerund had left the tent while he was examining the sigil, probably to give him time to think in peace. Merlin tried to think, he really did, but his thoughts were whirling so quickly that he could not seem to get a grip on any of them. The throbbing pain growing in his left temple was certainly not helping either.

Trying to force himself to think clearly, he focused his gaze on the ring that made everything so much more real. The ring, and the memory he had of it, meant that he could no longer pretend this was just a dream that he could wake up from or some sort of elaborate practical joke.

His mother had had this ring. His mother had had a sigil ring bearing the royal seal of Carthis. These sorts of rings were only forged for royalty, and no one outside of the royal family was ever permitted to own one. And yet his mother had. No doubt, Balinor had given it to her before he had left, as a token, something by which she could remember him. Maybe he had even asked her to hold on to it for him, claiming that he would come back to her when it was safe.

Somehow, Merlin doubted Balinor had told Hunith about his heritage or the ring’s true meaning. Having never lived in a large city, she had probably never seen a sigil ring before. She wouldn’t have known the significance of it. Hunith had been wearing a symbol of royal status on a frayed string around her neck for years without having the slightest idea. But now Merlin could remember it clearly, and he knew exactly what it meant.

His father had been Crown Prince of Carthis. And apparently that title now fell to him.

Merlin pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw stars.

Prince Merlin. King Merlin. He shook his head. It just didn’t sound right. Arthur was the king, not Merlin. Merlin was supposed to guide and protect the king, the Once and Future King, and help him reach his full potential. Where in his great destiny did it say that Merlin was supposed to be a king too? _Nowhere_.

This couldn’t be right, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be at Arthur’s side in Camelot, not ruling over another kingdom on his own. Besides, Merlin was still having trouble comprehending that a kingdom where magic was free even existed, much less the prospect of _ruling_ over said kingdom himself.

But if he didn’t, he knew what would happen. Merlin had seen what happened to a secular kingdom when its inhabitants fought amongst themselves, and he could hardly bear to imagine the devastation if magic was added to the mix. Fields made barren by curses, sturdy structures brought down with a single spell, unimaginable carnage wrought on a scale no secular man could hope to achieve. Carthis could destroy itself from within.

If Merlin didn’t take the throne, the kingdom that was apparently his birthright could very well fall to ruin. Could he live with that on his conscious? Could he really turn his back on an entire kingdom just to stay by Arthur’s side? Arthur was his destiny, it was Merlin’s duty to protect him. He had known this for years, practically since he had first set foot in Camelot, but could he forsake all of Carthis for one man, no matter the great portents of his destiny?

More than anything, destinies and birthrights aside, Merlin knew that he was scared, more scared than he could ever remember being in his whole life. He’d had years to come to terms with his magic and with the responsibility of protecting Arthur no matter the cost to himself, and he knew himself to be capable of that. He was powerful, he was dedicated, and he would gladly give his life for his friend and his King, but this was something else entirely. Not only was he being asked to leave his friends and his home behind, but he would be ruling over an entire kingdom.

He would be stepping into Arthur’s shoes.

Merlin understood better than anyone how difficult the job was; he had seen enough of Arthur’s struggles to know that the pressure would be far too much for most people to handle. Even Arthur had crumbled under the weight of his responsibility before, and Merlin had been the one to boost him back up with words of wisdom and confidence. Merlin didn’t think he would be able to bear it, especially not without his friends to support him as he had long supported Arthur. He wasn’t capable of this. Ruling a kingdom was so far out of his realm of experience. It would crush him.

Merlin shut his eyes tightly and forced down his fear and his insecurities, shutting them away where they wouldn’t cloud his judgment on the matter at hand. He’d had plenty of practice with that; in his life, things happened far too quickly for him to let fear get in the way of what he needed to do. He often didn’t have time to stop and determine how he felt about things, knowing it to be completely irrelevant in the grand scheme of it all, he just had to think and act before his emotions could cripple him.

He could not afford to think like _Merlin_ right now, not when there was a destiny and a kingdom and thousands of lives on the line. He had to think like Arthur, like a king. What would Arthur do?

With a heavy sigh, Merlin rubbed at his throbbing temples. He knew what Arthur would do, of course he did. For Arthur, the people always came before the self. The needs of the many before the needs of the one. He could not let thousands of people be put in danger just so that he could protect Arthur, the thought was unconscionable.

Merlin had to take up the crown. There was no other option. Camelot was strong. Arthur was strong. They would be able to get on without him. Carthis, on the other hand, would not. Carthis needed him far more than Camelot did right now, and Merlin would go to her aid, no matter how alarming the prospect. He would leave his home and his friends and everything he had ever known to take the throne of a magical kingdom in turmoil.

There was just one problem that needed to be dealt with first: he would have to tell Arthur.

That thought alone was nearly enough to make him change his mind about the whole thing. There was no way for him to explain anything to Arthur without explaining _everything_. And the only thing more terrifying than becoming a king was having to tell his best friend everything he’d been keeping hidden from him for the last eleven years.

But he would have to. There was no way around that, not now, not if he was going to go through with this. He couldn’t very well cover his tracks like he normally did, with lies and evasions and half-truths; there was no way that Arthur wouldn’t hear about the new King of Carthis. And Arthur knew Carthis to be a magical kingdom, and one which was ruled by a magical family. Even if he didn’t tell him, Arthur would find out. And Arthur, as his best friend, deserved to hear the truth directly from him.

Merlin stood up suddenly and squared his shoulders. It was now or never. If he waited any longer, he would talk himself out of it.

He crossed the tent and, after only a second or two of hesitation, forced himself to pull back the flap. He was hit with the usual noises of camp that had been muffled by the silencing spell Gerund had put in place, the rustlings of fabric and the clinking of chain mail and the crackling of the campfire and the low murmur of voices.

While Merlin and Gerund had been talking, Percival had joined Thalia, Mordred and Gwaine by the fire, but Arthur, Leon and Elyan were still clumped together defensively by the horses, their suspicion not yet alleviated.  They were eyeing Gerund, speaking with Tibalt on the other side of the camp, with undisguised wariness, and Arthur was picking at the straps on his saddle, something Merlin had noticed years ago that he rarely ever did and only when he was anxious about something.

As Merlin watched, Arthur shot a quick look toward the tent and then did a double take, as if he had been glancing over periodically and almost didn’t notice that the view was different this time. Trying to keep his heart from leaping frantically out of his mouth, Merlin gestured for Arthur to join him. Arthur nodded and said something to Leon before jogging over to the tent. Merlin stood back to let Arthur past him into the interior of the tent before letting the flap shut behind him once more.

The silencing spell was still in place, immediately blotting out the ambient noise of the campsite as the flap fell closed, and Merlin wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful for it; on the one hand, if Arthur wanted to yell and scream and rage at him, then he could do so without drawing attention to them. On the other hand, even without knowing it was of magical origin, the conspicuous lack of sound from the outside world seemed to put Arthur on high alert as soon as he crossed the threshold, as if he was feeling threatened before they had even begun.

Scanning the perimeter of the tent warily, Arthur turned and waited for Merlin to speak but, like Gerund, he couldn’t seem to find the words to begin. How was he supposed to broach this sort of subject? Was there a way to say it that would sound anything less than awful?

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Arthur said dryly, raising an eyebrow at him. “What did that sorcerer say to you to make you so shaken up?”

Merlin dragged a hand through his hair, trying to decide what to start with, which revelation would be least shocking.

“Do you remember Balinor?” he finally asked.

Arthur grimaced in confusion.

“That was the Dragonlord we went after, wasn’t it?” he said, sounding bewildered as to what, exactly, that had to do with anything.

Merlin nodded mutely.

“Yes, I remember him. Why? What about him?”

Merlin took a deep, shaky breath.

“He was my father.”

Arthur stared at him for a moment. Then he laughed.

“Come on, Merlin,” he chuckled. “That is ridiculous. I told you, these sorcerers cannot be trusted in anything they say. Surely you don’t believe him?”

“That’s not what he told me, Arthur. I already knew that,” he confessed.

Arthur stopped laughing then and looked at him more closely, trying to judge whether or not his servant was serious. When he saw that he was, his expression clouded over.

“You already…? Merlin, you told me that you never knew your father,” he growled, his tone more than a little angry.

“I didn’t!” Merlin said quickly. “At least, when we had that conversation, I didn’t know about him. I didn’t even have a name back then. I only found out about Balinor later. Gaius told me that he was my father the night before we rode out after him. Turns out, he didn’t know about me either. He didn’t even know he had a son.”

Arthur had turned around and was gripping the edge of the rickety table tightly.

“And you didn’t think to mention this?” he barked over his shoulder. “I knew that there was something wrong with you on that trip, but you blew me off, told me that you were worried about Camelot. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Your father had the Dragonlords hunted down and slaughtered, Arthur,” Merlin pointed out, his tone a little sharper than he had intended for it to be. He made a conscious effort to soften his voice before he spoke again, to sound less accusatory. “What do you think he would have done if he had found out?”

Arthur turned to stare at him, looking incredulous and offended.

“You think I would have told him? That I would have turned you over to my father?” he demanded. “Did you really think so little of me? Merlin, I know better than anyone that the son should not be blamed for the sins of the father. You have no more control over who or what your father was than I did. Why would I have turned you in for that?”

Merlin nearly growled in frustration; he hadn’t counted on Arthur’s complete lack of magical knowledge and understanding on making things more difficult.

“Arthur, the power of the Dragonlord is inherited,” he told him, fighting to keep his voice steady as he revealed what was arguably his biggest secret; people had known about his magic before, either they had found out or he had told them, and Emrys was quickly becoming common knowledge among the Druids. This, however, was something only he, Gaius, Balinor, and very briefly Lancelot, had ever known. “It is passed down to the son upon the father’s death.”

It took a minute for Arthur to realize what it was that Merlin was telling him, but the moment of dawning comprehension was obvious. His eyes widened and he took an involuntary step back, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword. Merlin winced, more hurt than he had expected to be by a reaction he thought he had prepared himself for long ago.

“Merlin, are you trying to tell me…that…that you’re a…” he stuttered, unable to get the words out of his mouth.

Merlin nodded once, not knowing what else to do. Arthur turned back around to brace himself on the table again, his head down and his elbows locked. Tense silence reigned for a minute or two while Arthur tried to wrap his head around the knowledge he’d been given and Merlin held his breath, wishing that was the worst of what he had to say.

“You’re a…you are a Dragonlord?” Arthur finally croaked out.

Merlin hesitated for only a second before pushing his fear resolutely to the back of his mind; his ability was nothing to be ashamed of. It was an honor. He was the last of an ancient and noble breed, and he was determined to act like it. He would not cower before his best friend. He would make his father proud. He straightened his back and lifted his head high as Arthur turned to face him, waiting for confirmation.

“Yes, Arthur,” he said firmly, allowing just a touch of his magic to creep into his tone, making it deeper and more commanding than it usually was. He could see that Arthur could tell the difference in both his voice and his stance, and that it disconcerted him. “I am a Dragonlord. The last Dragonlord.”

“The Great Dragon,” Arthur said suddenly, as if it had just occurred to him. “I didn’t defeat it, did I? I was unconscious, but you weren’t. You were the only one left standing after that attack, and the dragon was nowhere to be found. What did you do?”

“I ordered him to stop his attack,” Merlin said. “I commanded that he leave, and that he never attack Camelot again.”

“And it just listened to you?” he asked, his voice dripping with skepticism.

“He cannot disobey me,” Merlin said plainly. His tone rang with surety and he could see Arthur shiver involuntarily at his uncharacteristically imposing aura.

The king ran a hand over his face, his jaw clenched until Merlin could see the tendons standing out in his neck in sharp relief. Arthur turned away again, obviously unable to bring himself to look at his servant at the moment. Merlin just waited for his master to say something, anything.

“You said that you already knew this,” Arthur said eventually. “You have known about Balinor and about being a…a Dragonlord for years now. So what did that mage have to tell you? And what does it have to do with Balinor?”

“How much do you know about the kingdom of Carthis?” Merlin asked slowly, deciding that the method Gerund has used with him would work well enough here. Surely Arthur knew more about the other kingdom than he had, so Merlin wouldn’t need to explain as much to get the point across.

“I know that it is a kingdom where magic and sorcery go unchecked,” Arthur scoffed.

Merlin was hard-pressed not to roll his eyes at Arthur’s disdain and ignorance; magic was far from _unchecked_ in Carthis, he was sure of that. Just because it was legal didn’t mean that curses and plagues were running rampant in the streets.

“And I know that their queen died recently,” Arthur continued. “They are weak and leaderless at the moment with no heir to take the throne. Why?”

“Do you know anything else about the royal family?”

“That Queen Eleanor’s sister Theanor ruled before her. That’s all I really know about it,” Arthur snapped impatiently. “What does this have to do with anything, Merlin?”

“Did you know that Eleanor and Theanor had a younger brother?”

Arthur had not known that, judging by his expression. Merlin swallowed, finding it difficult since his mouth had become rather dry.

“His name was Balinor.”

Arthur grasped the implications of this much more quickly than Merlin had. He stared in horror for a few seconds, his mouth hanging open in a display which would have been comical in any other situation. As it was, the thought of mocking his master didn’t even cross Merlin’s mind. He braced himself for the explosion.

Arthur finally managed to close his mouth, though it did nothing to lessen the expression of dismay, and took several deep, slow breaths, his eyes closed tightly. When he opened them again, he had regained control of himself and slotted into place the cool, emotionless mask he often adopted for diplomatic proceedings. Merlin had never had that expression turned on him, though. It was unnerving.

“Sir Gerund lured us out here under the guise of a dragon attack in order to inform you of the position awaiting you in Carthis?” Arthur asked in a chillingly polite voice.

“Yes,” Merlin breathed out, feeling tears prick the backs of his eyes when Arthur kept his gaze firmly over Merlin’s shoulder, refusing to look at him.

Arthur nodded slightly then dropped his eyes to the ground for a second. When he looked back up, his composure was strained, like he was trying to hold something back and not succeeding very well.

“Forgive me if I am mistaken, Merlin,” he began, and Merlin thought he could detect the barest hint of a tremor in his master’s voice, though he still would not look Merlin in the eye, “but is it not the practice of magical kingdoms to have a magician on the throne?”

Arthur’s voice hitched slightly on the word “magician” and Merlin felt his throat close up, preventing him from answering properly. The muscle twitching in Arthur’s jaw, the strain in his tone, the slightly frantic clenching and unclenching of his fist by his side, the way he was determined to look at anything but Merlin; the obvious distress of his King, his destiny, his best friend, finally forced the tears from Merlin’s eyes.

Unable to get any sound past the lump in his throat, and knowing that his tears would be answer enough, he simply dropped his gaze.

Arthur didn’t say anything else. Merlin stayed as he was, unable to bring himself to look up, terrified at the thought of what he might see on Arthur’s face if he did. He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that would not stop coming, running traitorously down his face as evidence of his crimes.

The clinking of chainmail brought Merlin’s head snapping up just in time to see Arthur striding toward the exit. He was going to leave. Just like that. No. No, he couldn’t. Merlin needed to explain, he needed to tell him all the things he’d always wanted to.

Merlin reached out and put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder to pull him to a halt.

“No, wait! Arthur, please, I—”

Something in Arthur snapped. As soon as Merlin touched him, he growled in a more menacing way than Merlin had ever heard before. He spun around, knocking Merlin’s hand away from his shoulder as he did so, and his own gloved hand wrapped itself around Merlin’s throat and forced him back.

Gasping under the pressure, Merlin grabbed hold of his wrist and stared in horror at Arthur’s furious face. Underneath the rage, though, he could see the hurt still, the betrayal and confusion, and he couldn’t help but feel he deserved this pain for all he had done. That didn’t  stop him from struggling to breathe, tugging reflexively at Arthur’s fingers in a futile effort to loosen the vice-like grip they had on his neck.

He saw it in Arthur’s eyes the moment he realized exactly what it was he was doing. They widened slightly and he released Merlin as if his throat were on fire. Merlin dropped heavily to his knees, coughing and wheezing until his stomach hurt.

By the time he had his harsh breathing back under some semblance of control, Arthur was gone. Merlin could only stare at the tent flap for a moment, too overwhelmed to feel anything but dazed. Then he wrapped his arms around his legs, buried his face in his knees, and cried.


	4. Chapter Three

It was a while before Merlin’s tears subsided, leaving behind a dull ache in his chest and the feeling of having been hollowed out. He uncurled himself from his position on the floor and drew the hem of his sleeve across his wet face, sniffing and trying to get a hold of himself. He’d thought that he had prepared himself for all possible outcomes of that conversation, but he’d been wrong. Arthur had made his feelings abundantly clear and Merlin guessed he should count himself lucky that he was still alive. He didn’t feel lucky at all.

But he couldn’t just hide in this tent, no matter how much he wanted to. As much as it terrified him to think it, as much as he would rather just curl up here with his misery and never come out again, he had a responsibility to the people of Carthis and he would be damned if he let them down now, after he had already ruined his chance of going back to Camelot.

With that thought in mind, Merlin pulled himself to his feet. He tried his best to make himself look as though he had not just spent a great deal of time crying on the ground, but he didn’t think he managed it. He wiped at his face once more, took a shuddering breath, and fortified himself against what he might find when he left the tent. He didn’t know if Arthur would still be there, maybe telling the knights all that he had discovered.

He wondered what their reactions would be, if they would be as affected by it as Arthur had been. No one had come bursting into the tent with swords unsheathed, at least, so he decided to take that as a good sign. And he knew things had really gone to shit when _that_ was him being optimistic.

He clenched his fists at his sides, unable to force himself to draw back the tent flap. He didn’t think he could stand to see that same twisted pain and anger on the faces of the other knights, all of whom had become close friends of his over the last several years. To see that distress mirrored back at him four more times. It might just break him.

Merlin gritted his teeth against the fear. Damn it, he was _Emrys._ He was the most powerful sorcerer to ever exist, and he would _not_ stay in this tent hiding away like a child. He would face the consequences of his decision with his head held high. He squared his shoulders and opened the flap.

The camp was little different than it had been the last time that he had exited the tent. Thalia and Tibalt had gone, and their horses with them, presumably back home to their village now that their task was over and done. Elyan had bedded down for the night and was snoring lightly, probably still worn out from the patrol he had only just returned from before this wild goose chase came up. Mordred and Gerund were deep in conversation, smiling and gesturing ardently, but they were too far away for Merlin to hear their words. He wondered if they were speaking of magic, if Gerund had discerned Mordred’s Druidic upbringing yet.

Arthur was nowhere to be seen and Merlin didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed by the fact. The worried looks Leon and Percival were shooting into the woods were a good clue as to where he had gone, though. Leon looked about ready to charge in after him, unwilling to leave his king unprotected when he was in such an obviously distracted state, but Percival had a restraining hand on his arm.

Leon looked over to Merlin as he stepped out of the tent. There was no accusation in his eyes, only an entreaty, but Merlin could not hold his gaze. It was clear that Arthur hadn’t told them anything, that they didn’t yet know of Merlin’s crimes. Merlin turned away from them.

Gwaine was sitting alone by the fire now, a wine skin in his hand, looking toward the woods where Arthur had disappeared with an unusually pensive expression on his face. He took one look at Merlin as he approached and wordlessly proffered up the wine.

Merlin took it from him gladly, taking a generous gulp and wincing at the unfamiliar burn of alcohol—he had never held his drink well, and he had learned the hard way many years ago that magic and inebriation did not go well together—before sitting on the log beside Gwaine and passing the skin back to him.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, just staring into the fire side by side, each involved in their own thoughts. This was one of the things that Merlin liked most about Gwaine; considering the man’s prodigious talent for nattering on about everything and nothing at the same time, he also had a knack for knowing that there was a time and a place for it. He knew when his presence was all that was needed, when conversation would not be a blessing, and he wasn’t afraid of silence like so many were.

While Merlin was grateful that Gwaine wasn’t trying to talk his ear off or badger him for information, the quiet left his mind free to wander. With the flicker of the firelight on his face and the smell of the smoke from the campfire filling his senses, Merlin couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like on his skin.

Thoughts of the pyre spun through his head, of his wrists bound to a stake and the flames licking at his ankles before climbing up the wood to engulf him entirely. The imaginings were as vivid and terrifying as they had been all of his life, ever since he had first heard as a child that those with magic could only be purified of their evil through flame and fire. He couldn’t help but think that his worst recurring nightmare—Arthur lighting his execution pyre with a cold smile on his face—had every chance of becoming reality.

“So what did you do to get the princess so up in arms?”

Obviously Gwaine had decided he had given Merlin enough space and quiet for now. The man had good timing, Merlin couldn’t deny that. Gwaine’s question pulled him out of his macabre thoughts—not that the new topic was really any less distressing. Merlin did not answer the question. He had already lost one friend tonight, and he was likely to lose the rest of them in the morning; he wanted to keep this one for as long as he could.

“Was it something to do with magic?”

Merlin looked at Gwaine sharply, trying hastily to school his expression into something more neutral than the shock and suspicion he felt at the abrupt question. He tried to go for innocent surprise, but he had never been overly good at making that expression look convincing, according to Gaius.

“Magic?” he repeated, rather proud that he had managed to suppress the tremble trying to force its way through into his voice. “Why would you think that?”

“There isn’t much that can get Arthur that upset,” Gwaine pointed out, gesturing vaguely toward the tree line, where Arthur still had not returned. He leaned in to Merlin, looked around warily to make sure no one was close enough to overhear, and then leaned in even closer just to make sure. “Did you tell him that you have magic?”

If Merlin had been standing up, he would have fallen over. Sitting as he was, there was little else for him to do but gape open-mouthed at his friend. He thought he would’ve been inured to shock by now, what with the number of revelations he had already endured that day, but obviously he would’ve been mistaken.

Gwaine was watching him with deceptively quick, calculating eyes, taking in his every minute reaction and waiting for Merlin to say something, but he did not seem angry or accusing.

Merlin tried to respond to his question, to scoff and laugh it off as ridiculous even though there was little point in denying it now when it was all going to come out tomorrow anyway, but all that came out of his mouth was an incoherent splutter followed by a rather strangled-sounding, “H-how did you…?!”

“I didn’t _know_ , actually, but you just confirmed it,” Gwaine said with a slow grin spreading across his face. “I’ve had my suspicions on the matter since the Perilous Lands. You know, that obnoxious little dwarf at the bridge with the funny hat? The one that turned my sword into a bloody flower? ‘Courage, Strength and Magic,’ he said. There were only so many options,” he said with a shrug. “It wasn’t me. And it certainly wasn’t Arthur.”

“The Perilous Lands?” Merlin hissed, only just remembering to keep his voice down. “Gwaine, that was over four years ago! If you suspected me for that long, why didn’t you ever say something?”

“Every man has a right to his secrets, Merlin. I have plenty of my own. I figured if you wanted me to know, you would tell me eventually.”

Merlin searched Gwaine’s face for any hint of negative emotion: anger at the years of lying and hiding, hurt or betrayal at the lack of trust it implied, suspicion or even fear at the sorcerer hiding in their midst. But he didn’t see any of that. There was only warmth and trust and no small measure of concern for him.

For one of the very few times in his life, Merlin was left speechless. His heart clenched in his chest at a sudden upwelling of affection for Gwaine, the rugged knight with a sharp tongue and a pure heart. Gwaine gave him a soft smile, so much more honest than the roguish smirk that so often graced his features.

“So am I right?” he asked, not bothering to try and hide his enthusiasm. “Did you tell Arthur about your magic?”

Merlin deflated at the reminder of what he had done, dropping his head into his hands as that feeling of hollowness flooded him again, the ache throbbing in time with the pain blossoming behind his tired eyes, still gritty from crying.

“Yeah, I told him,” he sighed out with no small amount of difficulty.

“I take it it didn’t go over very well.”

It wasn’t a question; it didn’t need to be.

“Well, it certainly could have gone better.” Merlin pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, watching swirling colors appear on the backs of his eyelids. “It might not have been so bad if that had been all I had to tell him.”

“There’s more?”

Merlin turned to Gwaine with a strained approximation of a smile, which was all he could work up at this point.

“Apparently you’re not the only one with a secret noble heritage,” he said.

One of Gwaine’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Oh, so you’re a nobleman in denial as well?” he asked jokingly.

Merlin thought it best to be blunt.

“I’m going to be the King of Carthis.”

Gwaine’s other eyebrow leapt up to join the first, both of them reaching ambitiously for his hairline. He looked at Merlin for a moment, judging his sincerity. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something to that, paused, and then closed it again with an aborted shake of his head.

“I did not see that coming,” he admitted blankly.

“I’m also a Dragonlord,” Merlin tacked on, thinking he might as well get it all out in the open in one fell swoop.

“Bloody hell, Merlin, you don’t do anything by half measures, do you?” Gwaine squawked indignantly. “When you hold back, you go all in. How many secrets have you been keeping?”

“Far too many,” Merlin murmured, returning his gaze to the fire. The question had been meant as a joke, more like than not, but it hit far too close to home for him to take it that way.

Gwaine’s annoyance faded immediately as he picked up on Merlin’s sudden despondency and he laid a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Is that all?” he asked teasingly. “Or do you have a wife and seven kids hidden away somewhere? An evil twin you’re not telling us about? A tail maybe?”

The ridiculousness of Gwaine’s questions drew a soft chuckle from Merlin and he smiled gratefully up at his friend. He had a knack for breaking for the tension and for making people feel at ease even when they had no right to.

“No, certainly none of that. Those are the big secrets. Well, most of them at least,” he amended with a pained grimace, thinking of Emrys, of freeing Kilgharrah and allowing him to live, of poisoning Morgana. There was just too much to tell in whispers over a campfire in one night, an entire lifetime of lies and half-truths and slipping through the shadows.

A part of him, a nearly overwhelming part, wanted to tell Gwaine everything, to spill out all of his mistakes and his sins and get that compassionate, nonjudgmental smile in exchange, but he realized with a painful jolt that he would not get the chance. He scrubbed at his face with his hands, desperately wanting to turn time back on itself and make it so that this stupid trip had never happened. It had ruined everything.

“So…King of Carthis, huh?” Gwaine prompted, fishing for details as tactfully as he could, which was to say not very.

Merlin nodded, having to swallow hard in order to choke back the bile that rose in his throat at the very thought.

“When will you be headed out there?”

“Morning, I expect.”

“Morning? You’re not coming back with us?” Gwaine asked, sounding considerably more surprised by this than any of the unbelievable things he had learned so far. “What about your things? Gaius?”

It sounded like those weren’t what Gwaine was actually worried about, but for once he held his tongue. Merlin was grateful for that.

“Carthis is teetering on the brink of civil war. They can’t afford the time it would take for me to journey there and back again, they need me now. I’ll send someone to collect my things, and maybe write a note to Gaius explaining the situation. It’s not as if Arthur would approve of my returning to Camelot at this point, anyway, not with everything that he knows now,” he pointed out, the yawning emptiness in his chest threatening to suffocate him with its weight.

Gwaine had nothing to respond to that with.

_Emrys…_

The voice echoed inside his head and Merlin turned to see Mordred watching him intently from across the clearing, apparently having finished his conversation with Gerund. Merlin sighed, unable to think of any excuse not to tell Mordred what had happened; he already knew half of Merlin’s secrets anyway, and the rest would inevitably come out in the morning. He gestured for Mordred to join them by the fire.

The young knight did so with a wary glance at Gwaine, looking as though he didn’t wish to say what he wanted to in front of him. Gwaine gave Mordred much the same look. Both of them turned to Merlin.

“You both know,” he said simply. “In fact, more than half the people in this camp know. I don’t think that has ever happened before,” he added with a frown, more to himself than to either of them.

The knights eyed each other skeptically.

“What’s happened, Emrys?” Mordred asked, apparently deciding to trust Merlin’s word that Gwaine was in the know.

Gwaine frowned and flicked a glance between them like he wanted to ask about the strange form of address, but thankfully he held his tongue; that was one secret Merlin had not divulged to Arthur, and he wasn’t looking forward to it when the time came for him to do so.

“Is the king in danger?” Mordred asked solemnly.

A sudden shiver of dread ran down Merlin’s spine at that question, ice creeping up to claim his stomach as the image of Mordred in black armor driving a gleaming sword through Arthur’s stomach with flames leaping up behind them forced its way to the forefront of his mind. _Yes,_ he wanted to shout, _from you._

Horror rose up to strangle him; he hadn’t factored Mordred’s presence into his decision to leave Camelot. He had forgotten all about him and the danger he posed. How could Merlin possibly leave Arthur alone with the man who was destined to kill him?

But there was no way that he could go back to Camelot now, not with Arthur so thoroughly disillusioned. He was needed in Carthis, and unwelcome in Camelot. He couldn’t be there to protect him, to act us a buffer. But there was nothing he could do to get Mordred away from Arthur either.

“Merlin?” Gwaine asked, reading something of his thoughts in the tightening of Merlin’s shoulders although his expression did not show them outright.

“Arthur is fine,” he told Mordred finally, his thoughts racing frantically, working double-time to figure a way out of the situation that he had gotten himself into. “But he knows. About me.”

“Is that all?” Mordred asked skeptically, not accepting that as the sole cause of Merlin’s distress.

Merlin hesitated, trying to determine the best way to enact the half-baked plan that was quickly taking shape in the back of his mind.

“I’m leaving with Gerund in the morning. I’m going with him to Carthis,” he said.

Shock overtook Mordred’s features much as it had Gwaine’s; apparently no one could fathom the thought of him leaving Camelot. Or maybe it was just the thought of him leaving Arthur. He pushed the stab of pain from that thought out of his mind before it could show on his face and focused on the task at hand.

“What?” Mordred gasped. “But what of Arthur? It is your destiny to be at his side.” His astonishment made him look younger than he normally did, closer to his true age.

Merlin realized then just how young Mordred really was. His terrifying glimpse of the future had led Merlin to view Mordred through a cloud of suspicion, to treat him as the threat that he promised to become, the vision from the Vates overlaying his sight.

But Mordred was perhaps twenty years old, hardly more than a child really, and Merlin felt a stab of remorse, a pulse of empathy for the life which the young knight had led so far. It had not been an easy one.

“I don’t have to be at his side in order to protect him,” Merlin said, trying to sound more confident in that than he actually was; he could try to stop threats from reaching Camelot’s borders if he needed to, but there was really only so much he could do from such a distance. That wouldn’t stop him from trying, of course. He would do everything in his power to ensure Arthur’s safety, even from another kingdom.

“Whether I am there or not,” he said, “I will let no harm come to him. But I have other obligations, and they must take precedence at this time.”

“What other obligations?” Mordred asked, sounding baffled as to what could possibly be more important than his destiny.

“I am the last living person with a direct claim to the throne of Carthis,” Merlin said.

Mordred just stared at him for a moment, disbelieving. Gwaine was looking between them, taking in the odd dynamic the two of them had and no doubt trying to discern the reasons behind it. He knew Merlin well enough to tell a lot from the tension in his body, to see the thinly veiled distrust and hear the cautiousness in his every word. He knew something was up between them, but he couldn’t discern the history that lingered there from observation alone.

“You’re…” Mordred started haltingly, still trying to comprehend what he had just been told; to tell the truth, Merlin was as well, but he didn’t have the luxury of wasting any more time with mental breakdowns.

“I am leaving for Carthis in the morning with Sir Gerund,” Merlin repeated as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, Mordred instinctively moving to mirror his stance. “Mordred, would you…” he began, but he trailed off uncertainly.

He was not at all sure this was a good idea, but it was the only one that he had at the moment. He had to get Mordred away from Arthur, had to do this last thing to protect his true King, and Merlin would have to have been blind not to see the way that Mordred looked at him sometimes, the barely concealed hurt and confusion every time Merlin failed to join the knights in teasing him, the adulation in his gaze and the disappointment when Merlin stubbornly refused to trust in him.

Merlin took a deep breath and started again.

“I was wondering if you would…if you would come with me.”

It sounded more like a question than anything else, really. Gwaine looked at Merlin as though he had grown a second head; Merlin’s frosty attitude towards the young knight had not been missed by anyone, including Mordred himself. The knight in question somehow managed to look even more gob smacked than ever, his mouth hanging open and his ever present composure for once completely shattered.

“You want me to…to come with you?” he stammered, his voice sounding small and at least half an octave higher than usual. “But, why?”

Merlin shifted uncomfortably, painfully aware that the primary reason was to remove him from Arthur’s presence. He couldn’t tell Mordred that, of course. Instead, he drew on his prior realization of Mordred’s youthfulness and the honest sympathies it had brought to the fore.

“It is a kingdom where magic is free, where people like us are respected for our gifts. I have never experienced that, and I don’t think you have either. I want to share that with you. I want for you to have that chance,” he said.

And it was true. A large part of Merlin’s heart, the part that had not been hardened by his foreknowledge, still viewed Mordred as he had when he’d first laid eyes on him as a child on the run from Uther’s guards, scared and alone and persecuted for a power he hadn’t chosen and couldn’t hope to control. Mordred had reminded Merlin so strongly of himself back then, and his heart had bled for him. Despite all that had happened between them, despite all that Merlin now knew, that empathy had not faded in the intervening years.

Mordred’s wide eyes glistened in the firelight as he stared at Merlin with something close to awe. Merlin tried to keep from fidgeting as he waited for his decision, struggling to ignore Gwaine’s gaze trying to drill a hole through his skull.

“Emrys,” Mordred finally choked out. “I would be honored to accompany you.”

“It’s not Emrys asking,” Merlin said gently. Emrys still has to view you as a threat, he thought sadly. Emrys might still have to kill you _._ “It’s Merlin.”

Mordred’s shock and reverence softened into something more open, something fragile and painfully hopeful. It made Merlin’s insides squirm guiltily.

“Alright, what’s with the ‘Emrys’ thing?” Gwaine finally broke in, caving in to the curiosity he had held at bay through the conversation so far. “I’m pretty sure your name is Merlin, unless that’s just a cover story.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, half relieved at the conversation being diverted and half resigned at having to reveal yet another secret. He heaved a sigh and rubbed at his temple, trying to dispel the sharp pain that had long since taken up residence there. He opened his mouth to explain, but Mordred beat him to it.

“Emrys is a term from an ancient Druidic prophecy,” he said in the same even, assured tone he always used when speaking of such things, the one that said he believed wholeheartedly in what he spoke of. “Emrys is said to be the most powerful warlock to ever exist, destined to guide and protect the Once and Future King so that he may fulfill his own destiny.”

The blatant veneration in his expression forced Merlin to look away uncomfortably, turning automatically to the forest where Arthur had disappeared; he still had not returned.

“To ever exist?” Gwaine repeatedly, sounding a little faint. “Seriously? Are you being serious right now? Merlin, is he serious?”

“I have yet to meet my match,” Merlin admitted reluctantly, trying to convey through his tone alone how dubious he still found that claim to be. Forever was a long time, after all. He didn’t feel like he really deserved to monopolize the top spot.

“I have to admit, I would not have guessed it from looking at you.”

Gwaine looked him up and down appraisingly for a moment or two before nodding definitively, as if the matter were settled, accepting his unfathomable power with considerably more ease than Merlin himself had.

“Can you truly not sense it?” Mordred asked him.

Gwaine’s brow furrowed in confusion, looking back at Merlin for a translation of that question.

“Mordred somehow knew me on sight as this Emrys person. I had never even heard the name before, and I had no idea what it meant until later,” Merlin told him, trying his best not to think of what else he had learned because of the Druid boy’s appearance in Camelot. He cocked his head at Mordred, though, a question coming to his mind that he had been wanting to ask for a while and had not had the opportunity.

“Is that a Druid thing? Iseldir recognized me as well, but other sorcerers have never been able to pick me out like that.”

“I am afraid that I do not know the reasoning behind it, only that it’s true,” Mordred shrugged. “The Druid elders might be more informed on the matter than I.”

“I guess I’ll ask them when I get to Carthis then. There will be plenty of knowledgeable people there, I imagine,” Merlin said. “That will be one good thing about this: I might actually get to study for once. Gaius will be proud.”

He found his eyes prickling hotly at the thought of his guardian, the man who had taken him in and treated him like a son. He wished he could see him again, go back and say goodbye at least, but he knew that what he told Gwaine earlier was true. And he knew in his heart or hearts that if he went back, he would not be able to bring himself to leave the comfort and familiarity of the physician’s workroom, not when he knew what would be waiting for him when he did.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Gerund. The man’s kindly face radiated concern and Merlin gave him a strained smile of reassurance, the most genuine he could manage in the circumstances.

“Have you reached your decision, Merlin?” he asked, looking as though he would rather that he not have to ask at all.

“I will ride with you in the morning,” Merlin confirmed with the sensation of tying a noose around his own neck.

Gerund’s relief was palpable, though he tried to hide it in light of Merlin’s distress. He squeezed Merlin’s shoulder comfortingly.

“Thank you, Merlin. We will be honored to have you, my Lord.”

Merlin looked up, horror overtaking his features, and shook his head fervently.

“Oh no,” he said. “No. Don’t start with the whole ‘titles’ thing, don’t do it.”

“If you’re going to be king, Merlin, you’re sort of going to have to get used to it,” Gwaine pointed out.

Merlin made a helpless noise in the back of his throat, wondering pathetically how this could get any worse.

“Just…leave off the titles until absolutely necessary, please,” he groaned. “I don’t think I could take it.”

Gerund smiled down at him again, his expression taking on a wistful edge.

“You really do take after your father,” he said fondly. “He disliked honorifics as well. He felt like they removed him from his people.”

Merlin’s heart skipped a beat, swelling a bit at these words, at the confirmation of his father’s character, and he locked the detail away with the scant others he had collected over the years. He nodded his gratitude to Gerund and the mage nodded back before moving away again, off toward his tent. Merlin, suddenly feeling exhausted, rubbed at his forehead.

“What am I getting myself into?”


	5. Chapter Four

Arthur stormed from the tent and straight past Leon without acknowledging his First Knight’s attempts to waylay him, without even noticing him at all, really. His mind was occupied with one thought and one thought alone, leaving no room for any outside influences. _Merlin is a sorcerer. Merlin is a sorcerer. Merlin is a sorcerer._ It was constantly repeating, the words echoing through his head and running together until it was just a blur of anger and betrayal and disbelief and hurt. He did not hear Leon call his name and he did not stop until he was deep in the woods, far away from the source of his distress.

Merlin. Magic. He could not seem to reconcile the two in his mind, could not even wrap his head around the concept. _Merlin is a sorcerer._ Arthur drew his sword from its scabbard with a growl and drove it into the trunk of the closest tree with all his might. It stuck there and he had to fight to free it again, nearly losing his footing entirely as it pulled loose with a jerk. He threw himself into hacking at the tree, mindless of the damage it would likely do to his precious sword, until his undershirt was soaked through with sweat and blisters were beginning to appear on his fingers and his arms were trembling from the strain. Then he gave the tree one more vicious strike just for good measure. The burn in his overworked muscles was not enough to wipe his thoughts from his head like he had hoped that it would be. He stuck the tip of his sword into the ground and left it quivering there as he slumped at the base of his target.

Maybe Merlin had been lying, a stubborn, desperate part of him argued. Maybe he had made the whole thing up as some sort of sick joke. He could have a bit of a dark sense of humor at times. But then Merlin’s face, distraught and streaked with tears, floated up in his mind. He pushed it away determinedly, unable to bear the snarl of emotions that it brought up in him. Merlin’s anguish had been genuine, he was sure of that much. But then, could he really be sure of anything anymore where Merlin was concerned? After so many years, a decade of near-constant companionship, Arthur had thought that he had known all there was to know about Merlin. Apparently, he didn’t know anything at all.

Arthur remembered then the way Merlin had looked just before he had left, hunched over his knees on the ground, coughing and gasping for breath. He remembered that scared, desperate, yet somehow guilt-ridden expression as he had clawed at Arthur’s fingers. Arthur’s stomach turned at the memory of his own violence. Another memory rose unbidden, one of his father putting a hand to Morgana’s throat, backing her up against a chair and threatening her into submission.

This time, Arthur lost the battle against his nausea, and he rolled over to empty his stomach beside the abused tree. He had been horrified at his father’s actions then. They had made him rethink his whole opinion of the man that he had so looked up to, that he had emulated. Arthur had thought his father’s actions despicable, dishonorable, and unconscionable. And Arthur had vowed that he would never do something like that, no matter the provocation.

But he had done worse. Morgana had defied Uther’s will and he had wanted to intimidate her, to frighten her back into obedience, but he had not had any intention of hurting her. Even when Uther had wrapped his large hand around her neck and snarled in her face he had not truly hurt her. Arthur had gripped Merlin by the throat and squeezed. In his rage, he had meant to harm Merlin, to make him hurt, make him suffer. It was not an impulse that he had ever had before, and it was one which he hoped that he would never have again. He rubbed his wrist where Merlin had clutched at it in a halfhearted attempt to free his airway.

Merlin hadn’t even really struggled, Arthur realized. If what he had said was true, then he would have had no problem defending himself with…with m… He couldn’t even bring himself to think it, but the point remained. Merlin had not fought back against Arthur, had not drawn upon the power that he possessed, even when it seemed that his life was in danger. Guilt bubbled up through the tangle of emotions and Arthur pushed it down roughly. He had no reason to feel guilty, he told himself harshly. It was Merlin who should feel guilty, Merlin who had lied to him for eleven years about…about _everything._ Arthur had every right to be angry at a betrayal such as this. Finding a sorcerer hiding in his court in plain sight was not something that anyone could expect him to take lying down.

In his court. Maybe _that_ was it, he speculated wildly. Maybe Merlin had known of his royal heritage this whole time. Maybe he had infiltrated Camelot’s court to gather insider information for Carthis; the kingdoms were not on good terms, after all. A kingdom full of sorcerers, surely they would want to see Camelot fall. With all the knowledge that Merlin had gathered over years at Arthur’s side, Camelot would be easy pickings. The thought did not panic him the way he thought that it should. An enemy sorcerer knew all his secrets, from the city’s evacuation plans right down to the exact layout of the siege tunnels.

But his mind got stuck on the word ‘enemy.’ Was Merlin an enemy? _His_ enemy? It was hard to think of him as such, even now with so many dark secrets laid bare between them. Merlin had let the dragon live, the dragon that had slaughtered hundreds of his citizens, innocent people all of them. Surely that qualified him as an enemy, did it not? But then, the dragon had never troubled them again, just as Merlin had claimed to have ordered. Arthur ran his fingers through his hair and tugged, hoping the pain would help focus his thoughts. It didn’t.

Arthur couldn’t quite believe it. It was just too many incongruous images laid on top of one another. Merlin, sorcerer, liar, Dragonlord, king, enemy, traitor, _Merlin_. It didn’t make sense, none of it did. How could Merlin have been hiding something like this for so long? He had never been a very good liar, or at least Arthur had thought that was the case. Arthur had lost track of how many times Merlin had been thrown in the stocks for failing to lie convincingly enough to Uther. He found it hard to believe that Merlin would have allowed that to happen so often if he could have avoided it. And besides, if Merlin had been a sorcerer all that time, then Arthur would have noticed something, surely.

But with the dragon, hadn’t Merlin attributed the triumph to Arthur himself in order to cover up his own involvement? His relief at the routing of the beast had been so overwhelming that Arthur had never questioned Merlin’s words. Merlin had known that that would be the case and he had taken advantage of Arthur’s preoccupation to make sure that his lie would not be questioned too much. Could he not have made use of the same technique other times? Arthur’s mind was racing, skimming back over his memories, looking for situations in which sorcery might have been used and overlooked. In every instance that he came across, Merlin had been there, in a position to affect the outcome of the situation.

The immortal army, he realized with a lurch of his stomach, he was sure of it. Merlin and Lancelot had been tasked with disabling the warning bell. They had not done so, but they had borne no injuries to say that they had been intercepted by immortal warriors. The army had been destroyed, in a way that no one had ever satisfactorily explained, Morgause had been gravely injured, and Morgana had been forced to take her sister and flee in defeat. It had been Merlin, all of it, it had to have been. No other explanation made sense.

With each subsequent revelation, with each experience to which hindsight lent its clearer perspective, Arthur’s determination to think of Merlin as an enemy faltered and weakened. Time after time, Merlin seemed to have protected him or defended his kingdom against magical attack. It became painfully clear that he could not justify thinking of Merlin as a threat to him, not after everything it seemed that he had done for him. Merlin had drunk poison for him, and then had offered to do so again. He had taken out at least one army, any number of bandits and foot soldiers they had faced, and several magical beasts, no doubt. Arthur would have expected his sense of betrayal to lessen when he finally was forced to concede that Merlin’s actions showed nothing but loyalty to him, but the dark bitter feeling in the pit of his stomach remained.

Merlin was but the latest in a long string of betrayals, of people who had lied to him over and over again. His father, his sister, his uncle, even his wife and his truest knight. And now Merlin, of all people. He wondered why it was that, of the numerous betrayals that he had suffered in his life, this one stung the worst. Maybe because Merlin had been there at his side through all of the others, the one person of whom Arthur had always been sure, the one person whose honesty he had never doubted. To have the rug pulled out from under him so sharply, to have his world turned upside down with a few simple words, to have the one person he had trusted unconditionally proved untrustworthy… Arthur didn’t know what to do.

And the worst part, he realized, was that he didn’t have much time. Merlin was leaving, he was going to Carthis. Arthur would not have the opportunity to interrogate him, to berate him for his dishonesty, to force the truth out of him. But with the anger boiling in his blood and the hurt that made him want nothing more than to hide away and lick his wounds, Arthur didn’t think he could face him, not now. But could he really let Merlin go like this? Let him leave, possibly for good, with their last encounter ending with Arthur’s hand at Merlin’s throat? Without anything being resolved between them? Arthur dropped his face into his hands. He just didn’t know what to do.

 

\--

 

Arthur knew that he had to get back to camp before true dark fell or risk his knights panicking and riding out in search of him and dragging him back. As the light began to fade, he stood tall, trying to pull his fragmented composure back around himself by his posture alone. He still had no idea what he would do when he saw Merlin again. Provided, of course, that Merlin was still there. He wondered a bit hysterically if Merlin had already left, if he had missed his opportunity to do anything at all, but he knew rationally that no one would go riding off at twilight, even sorcerers. So he sheathed his sword and strode determinedly off toward the campsite, dreading the moment that he would reach it.

When he did, he was greeted by a very worried and disapproving Sir Leon. He was trying to hide his displeasure out of respect for his sovereign, but Arthur understood his upset and appreciated the space which he had very reluctantly been given. Leon had always been prone to worrying over him, from the time that he was just a young squire eager to prove himself capable of standing on his own two feet. Leon had taken to hovering then, keeping a close eye on him to make sure he did not overexert and injure himself in his eagerness, or ride off to do something stupidly brave by himself. At the time, Arthur had not been at all pleased with his attentions, but he had grown to appreciate them for what they were, which was honest concern for his wellbeing. Leon had been his friend long before Arthur had realized that fact.

“Arthur,” Leon said, the familiarity of the address showing just how anxious he had been. “Is all well?”

 _Not really, no,_ Arthur wanted to reply. Things were most certainly not well at the moment, at least as far as his mental state was concerned. _My manservant of the last eleven years is actually a Dragonlord and is about to be crowned the magical king of a magical kingdom._

Before he could think better of it, he was searching the campsite for Merlin. He caught sight of him sitting on a log by the campfire, speaking quietly with Gwaine and, of all people, Mordred. Arthur thought that he might be sick again when he noticed the bruises growing on Merlin’s throat. Most of them were concealed by his neckerchief, but Arthur could see the damage that he had caused in his anger plainly spelled out on the pale skin. Merlin looked wan and tired, his eyes red and his hair a disheveled mess. As Arthur watched, he grimaced at Gwaine in a way that was probably supposed to be a smile.

“Arthur?” Leon said again. Arthur snapped his attention back to his first knight. By now he had forgotten the question that he had been asked, so he waited for Leon to repeat it. “Are you alright?” Arthur cleared his throat, wanting to explain or at least reassure him in some way, but at that moment, Merlin looked up. When he saw Arthur, his face drained of what little color it had left, which made the bruises stand out even more sharply. He looked terrified at the mere sight of him. The thought nearly tore a hysterical laugh from Arthur’s throat; by all rights, it was _he_ who should be afraid, wasn’t it?

“Arthur, what happened?” Leon demanded, following Arthur’s line of sight. Arthur finally tore his gaze away from Merlin, but he still didn’t know what to tell Leon; it was not the sort of thing that he felt like he could just blurt out.

“Maybe it is a conversation that is best left until morning,” he said eventually, stalling for time. Leon did not look satisfied in the least, but he knew when Arthur’s tone brooked no argument and he wasn’t one for defying authority, so he settled for a scowl and a jerky nod. He left Arthur alone at the edge of the camp, probably to bed down in order to make morning and the promised explanation come that much faster. Arthur could feel Merlin’s gaze on him, but the prickle of shame in his belly kept him from meeting his eye. Even if Arthur could bring himself to approach Merlin, would the other man be willing to talk to him after the way in which he had behaved? Arthur certainly wouldn’t be, were he in Merlin’s place. But then again, Merlin had always been a far more forgiving man than he had.

Anger spiked through him again, directed in equal parts at Merlin and at himself. Why was he thinking of seeking Merlin’s forgiveness when Merlin was the one in the wrong? Arthur was the maligned party here, not Merlin, and as such he should be the one whose forgiveness was being sought. Merlin was the one who had been breaking the law, who had been practicing sorcery in a kingdom which expressly forebode it, in _Arthur’s_ kingdom, and had not even had the forthrightness to inform his king of that fact.

And maybe _that_ was what stung him the most, if he was wholly honest with himself. Not the magic, not the illegality of it, but that Merlin had never told him. Arthur had opened up to Merlin, had told Merlin things that he had never spoken of with anyone else, his doubts, his fears, his insecurities, his guilt. Yet eleven years had not been enough to convince Merlin of his trustworthiness in return. In that time, had he not shown himself to be a more reasonable man than his father? The thought of his father, of his harsh treatment of Morgana and Arthur’s own reflexive imitation of it, plagued him once more, making his stomach twist. Gwaine was glaring daggers at him from the fire, no doubt having noticed the hand-shaped bruises around Merlin’s neck and deduced their cause, and Arthur could not help but think that he deserved Gwaine’s contempt.

 

\--

 

Merlin couldn’t breathe; his lungs had simply decided that they did not want to function anymore. He was not prepared for this, and he had no clue as to what to do, none whatsoever. But there Arthur was on the other side of the clearing, ignoring Leon’s inquiries in favor of staring at Merlin. What would happen now, he wondered as his lungs failed to inflate once more, leaving him a bit lightheaded. Would Arthur yell and rage at him? Would he attack him again? Would he go cold and silent and ignore him completely? Would he announce all that he had learned to his knights, maybe even order that Merlin be arrested? Or would his newfound lineage give him some sort of diplomatic immunity?

“What is that?” Gwaine demanded suddenly, his voice sharp as glass.

“What?” Merlin responded vaguely. He felt the warmth of Gwaine’s hand on the back of his neck and remember too late the marks that had surely bloomed there since Arthur had left him in the tent. He tried hastily to bat Gwaine’s hand away, to shift his neckerchief to hide the evidence, to convince his friend that he hadn’t seen anything but shadows, but Gwaine’s noise of outrage told him he hadn’t managed it in time. Even Mordred looked troubled at the proof that violence had been wrought against him.

“That bastard,” Gwaine growled through gritted teeth. “That piece of shit. All you do for him and _this_ is how he repays you? I’ll kill him. I’ll bloody well kill him.” He made to get up, to confront Arthur, to hit him maybe, but Merlin clamped a hand on Gwaine’s arm to keep him from leaving his seat.

“No, Gwaine, no! He had every right to react the way he did,” he insisted, his own guilt and self-loathing coloring his tone more than he would have liked.

“He tried to strangle you, Merlin,” Gwaine said furiously. “How is that justified?”

“He has been taught all his life to view sorcerers as threats,” Merlin explained, exerting more pressure on Gwaine’s arm to stop him from jumping up and launching himself across the campsite. “He was already feeling angry and betrayed. He went to leave, I grabbed him from behind. He had to have felt like he was being attacked, and he reacted accordingly.”

“That’s bullshit, Merlin, and it’s bullshit that you’re defending him,” Gwaine spat.

“I can’t blame him for being angry with me, Gwaine.”

“He tried to kill you!”

“No, he didn’t!” Merlin denied immediately. “No, the second that he realized what he was doing, he stopped. It was a reflex reaction to a perceived threat, not a murder attempt.” Gwaine still looked thunderous, but Merlin had a surprisingly strong grip on his arm and he was not letting go, so he turned to glare at Arthur instead, obviously trying to strike him down with his eyes alone. Satisfied for the moment that Gwaine had himself under control, Merlin reached up absently to rub at the offending marks, wincing as he noticed for the first time how painful they were. It still hurt to swallow.

Arthur must have caught the motion, for he looked away quickly, a faint flush on his cheeks that Merlin couldn’t quite decipher. He had sent Leon away sometime while Merlin was trying to keep Gwaine from going on a rampage in his defense. Merlin watched nervously as Arthur set about laying out his bedroll for the night, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Arthur fended off questions from Percival with a few clipped words and sent Leon a look that kept him from asking anything more. Gwaine and Mordred already knew what had happened, of course, and Elyan was asleep and had been that way through the whole sorry episode, so Arthur did not need to worry about being harassed by any of them. Merlin wondered what Arthur had told Leon and Percival. Judging by the looks that they were sending Arthur’s way, Merlin guessed that whatever it was, it was not what they wanted to hear. He was thankful they did not turn to him for answers instead; he didn’t know what to tell them any more than Arthur did.

“Come on, Merlin,” Gwaine said eventually, gripping his shoulder a bit more tightly than he probably intended to in his suppressed anger. “You should get some sleep. I have a feeling that tomorrow is going to be a long day for you.” Merlin chuckled humorlessly and rubbed at his face. He had been doing that a lot lately; the skin there felt raw and sensitive from how often he had scrubbed his hands over it.

“I won’t be able to sleep, Gwaine,” he said bleakly.

“Rest, then,” he amended in a tone that was somehow both gentle and unyielding. Gwaine began manhandling him through the process of bedding down. Now that Arthur was back in the camp, the others were quick to do the same. Gerund briefly emerged from his tent to bid them all a courteous goodnight and to assure them that the regular patrols made these woods exceedingly safe before he turned in for the night. Leon volunteered for first watch anyway, and no one tried to dissuade him from it.

Merlin couldn’t get comfortable. Now that they had been brought to his attention, the bruises made his neck stiff and sore, and his throat felt like he had swallowed glass. But that was only a mild irritant compared to his chaotic thoughts, oscillating between despair and terror every few seconds. Arthur hated him, he was leaving home and abandoning his destiny, he was going to take on the governance of an entire kingdom, all his secrets were soon to be common knowledge, Arthur hated him, Arthur hated him, Arthur… Merlin rolled onto his side to stare into the fire, wondering if Arthur was lying awake too.

 


	6. Chapter Five

Arthur lay flat on his back now, refusing to give into the desire to toss and turn, to provide a physical outlet for all his agitation. Judging by the restless shifting from across the fire, sleep was eluding Merlin as well. He wasn’t surprised. Arthur turned his attention away from Merlin. Or tried to, really, but he seemed hyperaware of every sound, every shift and rustle of the blankets, every frustrated huff of breath.

Arthur wondered if part of his own sudden insomnia couldn’t be attributed to sharing a camp with two sorcerers. Gerund, at least, was a fighter by trade, highly trained in offensive magic, and that meant that he was extremely dangerous. But so far the man had been nothing but polite and hospitable, as any good host was expected to be. Except for the whole ‘luring them out here under false pretenses’ bit, but Arthur felt like there was probably more to that than he wasn’t getting and so decided to reserve judgment on that point until he had all the facts.

All of it in order to tell Merlin that his father had been a prince. To offer Merlin the crown that was his by right of birth. Really, now that he had thought it all through, and with more and more instances of potential magic use becoming evident in his memories, he was having more trouble accepting that Merlin was royalty than that he was a sorcerer. _Merlin_ was royalty. Merlin who tripped over his own feet and made funny faces during important council meetings to distract Arthur from the matter at hand or to keep him awake, depending on his level of interest in the subject and the monotone of the council member speaking at the time. It just didn’t make any sense.

But then, Merlin had never exactly been the model of subservience, even when he made the effort. He had none of the deference and regard for those of higher status that most of common birth displayed. He had a way of standing his ground and refusing to be dismissed that Arthur had never seen before in someone coming from such a humble background. Maybe it stemmed from some innate feeling of worth, of standing and authority. Or maybe it was just Merlin and Arthur was overanalyzing everything now. He sighed.

What the hell was he going to say to his men in the morning? How was he supposed to tell his knights that his manservant was a magical Dragonlord king? It sounded absolutely ridiculous even in his head and he couldn’t imagine saying it out loud. They wouldn’t believe him. He wouldn’t have believed it himself if Merlin’s sincerity hadn’t been written in the tears on his face. Maybe Merlin would want to tell them himself; they were his friends too, after all. Although, if the evil eye Gwaine had been giving him earlier was anything to go by, he had quite possibly already been informed on the matter. Or maybe he had already known. A pang of jealousy mixed with the bitterness of always being the last to know curdled in his stomach. Maybe he could let Gerund explain the situation. This was all his fault, really.

The steady, rhythmic sound of Leon sharpening his sword while he kept watch was soothing in its own grating way. Arthur tried to focus his mind of that instead of on Merlin’s increasingly agitated fidgeting, hoping to lull himself to sleep with its familiar monotony. He might have managed it if Merlin hadn’t chosen that moment to give up on sleeping entirely. He rolled out of his bedding and sat up, scrubbing the sleepiness out of his eyes and shaking his head as if to clear it. He nodded at Leon and promptly disappeared into the woods, mumbling some sort of excuse that Arthur couldn’t hear but already knew was a lie all the same.

Arthur watched him go with narrowed eyes, half of him suspicious and the other half vaguely ashamed of the former. He sat up, fully intending to follow Merlin, and then hesitated. Knowing what he knew about Merlin now—namely, that he didn’t really seem to know anything about him at all—he wondered if he might not see something he wasn’t prepared for. But this might be his only chance to talk to Merlin alone before he left for Carthis.

Decision made, Arthur stood and nodded imperiously to Leon, who looked inquisitive and impatient, but not so much so as to impeach his honor by sneaking out after to eavesdrop on them. Safe in that thought, Arthur strode confidently into the trees in the direction in which Merlin had gone, trying to look as if he knew what he was doing and hoping Leon wouldn’t ask him why. He followed Merlin’s trail—which was rather difficult in the dark, and when Merlin seemed to be taking extra pains with his stealth—deeper into the woods, past the clearing Arthur had used earlier to vent his anger, and into a large open field. What he saw there robbed him of breath and rooted him to the spot.

The dragon, the same one that had rained molten fire down upon Camelot and gouged deep furrows out of the stone of the battlements with its razor sharp talons, was sitting peacefully in the middle of the field, its enormous diaphanous wings folded neatly along its scaly sides and its golden eyes fixed on the slight figure silhouetted in moonlight before it. Arthur’s first instinct was to attack, to draw his sword and rout the beast in the name of all those it had slaughtered, but experience told him that plan was very, very unwise. His next impulse was to dart forward and pull Merlin out of the way, the idiot, before he was…

Then he remembered. _I am a Dragonlord. The last Dragonlord. He cannot disobey me._ Looking between the two incongruous figures, the surety that he had heard in Merlin’s voice when he made that claim was overshadowed by Arthur’s surety that Merlin was about to be roasted and eaten. But that wasn’t happening. Instead, the dragon was simply observing, making no move to attack the vulnerable human at its feet. Merlin’s arms were flying about and he seemed to be shouting at the creature. Unable to hear what was being said, Arthur crept carefully closer and hid himself behind a bush at the edge of the clearing.

“You had no right to keep this from me, Kilgharrah. _No right!_ ” Merlin was saying. From his new vantage point, crouching in a manner more befitting a child than a king, Arthur could see just how angry Merlin was, his face red and his stance tense and aggressive.

“It was unimportant,” the dragon said in an off-hand sort of way, giving what looked to be the dragon equivalent of a shrug. His voice was low and hoarse, echoing a bit in the silence of the night, and Arthur wondered why no one had ever seen fit to inform him that dragons were capable of such intelligent speech. If he’d known that, he would have tried to reason with the dragon when he’d attacked, instead of taking his knights and riding out to fight him to the death. He wondered if the approach would have changed anything, if it would have made a difference.

“Unimportant?!” Merlin repeated disbelievingly. He had to turn away for a moment, absolutely speechless in his anger. “You didn’t think it important to mention that my father was a damn _prince_? That never crossed your mind as something that I might like to know? That it might eventually have an effect on my life?”

“It has no bearing on your destiny, young warlock.”

“No? Well, it’s certainly interfering with it now,” Merlin spat. Arthur looked between them confusedly. Destiny? What sort of destiny could Merlin possibly have? Although, he seemed to recall Merlin having spoken about destiny before. He said that he’d read a book on it. Apparently he had more firsthand experience than that. “I can’t very well protect Arthur from three days away, can I? And not when he hates me.” Arthur flinched, eyes drawn involuntarily to the bruises round his servant’s neck, which were barely visible in the darkness but seemed to stand out like a beacon anyway.

“A half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole,” the dragon intoned sagely, though there was an undercurrent of frustration to it. “I have told you this once before.” Merlin scoffed.

“Yes, well, that was before eleven years’ worth of lies blew up in my face,” he said bitterly. “He has every right to hate me. I can’t blame him for that. But it makes my job a lot harder.” His job? He had thought that Merlin’s only job was to clean his chambers and wash his socks, but apparently Merlin disagreed on that front. Did he really see it as his job, his _destiny_ even, to protect Arthur from harm? Arthur wanted to laugh at the thought of needing a sorcerer’s protection, but the ever-growing pile of instances where it seemed he _had_ kept him from doing so.

“You must stay in Camelot, Merlin. It is your destiny to stand at Arthur’s side,” the dragon insisted. Merlin scowled up at him, fists clenching spasmodically.

“I can’t justify letting an entire kingdom fall into civil war for the sake of one man,” he said through gritted teeth.

“He is not just a man, Merlin, he is the Once and Future King,” the dragon said, as though this made all the difference in the world. Again, Arthur felt as though he had heard that term before, from Merlin’s own lips no less. He didn’t know its significance, but the weight it carried was obvious. It did little to sway Merlin’s stance, though.

“That doesn’t make him worth more than the hundreds, thousands, of people who will suffer from this war! Carthis will destroy itself unless I take the throne!” he said.

“It is not your destiny to be king, it is Arthur’s,” the dragon asserted, leaning forward to loom over Merlin in a very frightening display of massive teeth and glistening scales, but Merlin was far past being intimidated by him, if he ever had been.

“You think I don’t _know_ that?” Merlin bellowed, looking a bit frantic now, just shy of pulling his own hair out. “I’m not a _king_! I don’t know how to be a king, that’s Arthur’s job, and I would be quite happy to leave it to him if lives weren’t on the line. But as it is, it falls to me. I can’t afford to be a coward, Kilgharrah, not in this. And I will not abandon my father’s kingdom just because I’m scared out of mind.”

Merlin stopped, his chest heaving and his face flushed, and the dragon didn’t seem to have any response to that. Arthur certainly didn’t know what to say and was glad that he didn’t have to say anything at all, hidden as he was. Guilt welled up at the realization that he was intruding on what suddenly seemed a very private moment. Merlin was cracking, falling apart at the seams. This wasn’t something he would have wanted Arthur to see, but he didn’t think he could sneak away without drawing attention to himself. Merlin moved like he was going to run his fingers through his hair but changed his mind halfway through, the aborted motion leaving his hand hovering awkwardly in the air before falling back to his side limply.

“I don’t have a choice,” he said in a small, broken voice, looking up beseechingly, as if hoping the dragon would be able to fix all this, but the creature just shook his giant head sorrowfully. Merlin’s face fell and he took a deep, shuddering breath, working to hold himself together as his world fell apart.

“Have faith in yourself, Merlin,” the dragon said in a tone much gentler than anything Arthur would have expected from a beast of that size as he leaned down to be on a level with Merlin instead of looking down on him from such a great height. “You must not underestimate your abilities.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, Kilgharrah,” Merlin admitted, his voice so quiet that Arthur almost didn’t hear it. It sounded almost as though the confession was wrenched from him against his will, like he wanted nothing more than to appear strong but just couldn’t manage it any longer. “I don’t want to fail. I’ve already let down so many people. I can’t afford to do so again.”

“You will not,” the dragon said. “Your destiny is a great one, young warlock, and you would not have been chosen for it had you not been worthy of it.” Merlin searched the dragon’s face for a long moment and then ducked his head and sniffed, dragging the back of his sleeve across his eyes to get rid of the tears he wouldn’t allow to fall again.

“You said this has nothing to do with my destiny,” Merlin pointed out, but Arthur noticed that he seemed a bit reassured all the same.

“Perhaps,” the dragon mused, tilting his head to the side like a very large cat. “But then again, perhaps not. Destinies are troublesome things, as you well know. They do not always advance in the way one expects them to.”

“Great, more riddles. I love those.” Arthur knew just from his petulant tone that Merlin was rolling his eyes. The thought made him smile, if only a bit, his heart panging at the familiarity of it all, at how Merlin could be just as he always had been while still being so different.

“Take heart, young warlock. Your and Arthur’s paths lie together, that much has been known for time immemorial. No one ever said that the path would run smooth. If your bond is broken, then it will heal, and it will be stronger for having been tested.” Merlin nodded, but he didn’t respond, his head still down. After a moment, he shifted on his feet, an uncertain motion that was somehow reminiscent of a child about to ask for something he didn’t think he deserved but still wanted anyway.

“What’s…” he started tentatively, his voice small. “What’s Carthis like?” The dragon smiled, or at least Arthur thought he did; it was hard to tell on that reptilian face.

“It is a beautiful kingdom,” he said in a rather wistful tone. “One where magic is free and the Old Religion still respected and practiced. The people are in balance with the magic of the land that nourishes them; they do not take it for granted the way some do.”

“And…will I fit in there?” There was something so raw in Merlin’s voice, in the almost childlike desperation to the question, that Arthur felt the need to look away. He was taken back to Ealdor, years ago, when he had asked Merlin why he’d left his village for Camelot. _I just didn’t fit in there. I wanted to find someplace that I did._ Apparently he was still looking. Camelot had never been that place for him, it couldn’t have been.

“You know where you belong, Merlin,” the dragon said simply. Then, with a sudden flapping of wings, he took to the sky and left Merlin staring after him as he disappeared into the blackness. Arthur watched his manservant’s thin form for a moment before realizing exactly what it was he was doing and all the reasons he shouldn’t be doing it. As quickly as he could without alerting Merlin to his presence, Arthur straightened up slightly from his crouch, wincing at the way his knees and hips protested the movement after so long in one position, and tiptoed back the way he had come, doubling back again to meet his servant when he returned to camp.

It was several minutes before he heard Merlin’s footsteps coming his way through the trees. Arthur made as though he had only just taken to following Merlin’s tracks, not keen on admitting that he had hidden behind a bush to eavesdrop on Merlin’s conversation with the dragon. Merlin was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he nearly ran into Arthur before he noticed him and then almost jerked himself right off his feet in surprise when he did.

“Arthur!” he yelped, flinching when his voice resounded in the empty woods. “W-what are you doing here?” His eyes darted around and he looked back over his shoulder, shifting guiltily. His hand came up to adjust his neckerchief, absently trying to cover up as much of the bruises as possible, but it didn’t do much good, and he flushed darkly when he saw Arthur’s eyes follow the movement, dropping his hand quickly. Arthur cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“I, er… I came looking for you,” he said, not able to make eye contact.

“Why?” Merlin asked. Arthur’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch at the barely noticeable, but still present, note of fear underneath the more obvious uncertainty.

“I wanted to apologize,” Arthur said slowly. He heard Merlin’s sharp intake of breath but he still couldn’t bring himself to look at him. “My behavior in the tent was unwarranted and unacceptable.”

“You’re not angry?” Merlin whispered with a fragile sort of hope. Now Arthur raised his gaze to meet Merlin’s.

“Of course I’m angry, Merlin. I’m furious,” he said, his tone hard enough to convey just how upset he was. Merlin’s face fell, his hand returning to his neck seemingly without his noticing. Arthur took a deep breath before he continued, trying to force his ire back to a more manageable level. “But I acknowledge that your actions speak only of loyalty and good intentions. I should not have repaid that with violence. My actions were reprehensible, and I’m sorry for them.”

Merlin’s eyes were bright in the light of the moon, but he didn’t allow any more tears to fall, for which Arthur was selfishly grateful; he had no desire to be cruel to Merlin, but he was also in no position to be at all comforting. Merlin looked down at his boots, scuffing one toe along the ground and swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. Arthur waited for him to gather his composure a bit, averting his eyes from the disconcerting sight of a truly upset Merlin, which was something he had very rarely seen even in eleven years of nearly constant companionship.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” Merlin choked out eventually, his voice hoarse and scratchy from so much crying and yelling over the last few hours. Arthur was sure his own rough treatment had to have contributed to the harshness of Merlin’s voice. Merlin couldn’t seem to lift his head, like he had a weight pressing down on him. “I’m so sorry, for everything.”

“I know.” And he did, he could see that much clearly. But it didn’t fix anything. There was nothing else for him to say. Merlin nodded to the ground, knowing that as well as Arthur did. They lapsed into a painfully tense silence, plenty needing to be said between them and neither of them ready to say it. Finally, Merlin lifted his head, sniffing and drying his face on his sleeves as surreptitiously as possible.

“We should get back. Leon’s probably getting worried,” he said, clearing his throat after as if his voice had come out louder than he’d intended it to.

“I think he’s well past worried by now,” Arthur sighed, his temple giving a nasty throb.

“What are you going to tell them?” Merlin asked tentatively, as if he wasn’t at all sure that he still had the right to ask such questions of him. Arthur squeezed the bridge of his nose between his fingers, trying to will away the headache but it stayed stubbornly put where it had taken up residence just behind his eyes.

“The truth, of course. I can’t very well tell them anything else. This isn’t exactly something that be swept under the rug, Merlin.” It came out harsh and accusatory, making Merlin flinch. Arthur couldn’t bring himself to feel overly bad about that at the moment. “It’s just a little unbelievable, is all. Maybe Gerund could explain it to them.”

“Yes,” Merlin said immediately, latching on to the out when it was offered. “Yes, let’s have him do it.”

“Most of this is his fault anyway.”

“Exactly.”

They hovered awkwardly again for a moment. Then Arthur determinedly turned back toward the camp and began walking. He heard Merlin fall in behind him, his steps making loud shushing noises over the carpet of fallen leaves. A familiar crashing noise told him that Merlin had tripped and nearly gone sprawling over the forest floor. It almost got a smile on Arthur’s face, the thought that not everything about Merlin had been a lie, even if his clumsiness had to be the most honest trait. But he didn’t reach out to steady Merlin as he might have done before, didn’t throw out a jibe or a friendly insult about his lack of grace. He just kept walking and Merlin pulled himself to his feet and carried on behind him without a word.

Leon scowled at them when they passed into the light of the campfire but he didn’t comment on their nighttime excursion as they returned to their bedrolls. For Arthur, at least, the relief of having made the decision to pass off the task of filling the knights in on all that had come to light to Gerund in the morning was enough to grant him the forgetfulness of sleep. As he went under, though, he heard a rustling of blankets from across the fire. Merlin, it seemed, would not be granted the same mercy.


	7. Chapter Six

Merlin was still awake when weak morning light began to filter in over the tops of the trees. Leon had long since woken Elyan to take over the watch, and the dark-skinned knight was cleaning his dagger for want of anything else to do in order to occupy his hands. Merlin lay as he had for the last several hours, just staring blankly up at the slowly lightening sky and trying to keep his mind as empty as he possibly could. It wasn’t working, not in the slightest, and his panic wasn’t diminishing, despite his best efforts to force it down. He wondered briefly whether or not he was powerful enough to stop time in its tracks. Slow it down, certainly, that he had done before without even having to think on the matter, any number of times, but stop it entirely? He was supposed to be the most powerful warlock to ever exist, surely he could. Maybe that way he wouldn’t have to go through with this.

As tempting as the thought was, the others in the camp were beginning to stir now, roused by the growing sunlight, and he’d lost his chance. He pulled himself upright and set about rolling up his bedding with movements long since made mindless and automatic by practice. He crossed the sleepy camp to pack his things into his horse’s saddlebags, making sure to keep his head down so as not to make eye contact with any of the wakening knights; if he did that, one of them would surely start up with questions that he wasn’t sure he could answer just yet.

He leaned into his Llamrei’s familiar warmth, letting her support him for a moment. She turned to nuzzle his stomach, searching for a carrot or a piece of apple as a treat, but he didn’t have anything to give her so he just patted her velvety soft nose fondly; Arthur had gifted the gentle mare to him after Merlin had been thrown by no less than three of the spirited geldings that were usually housed in the royal stables. She was his for life, Arthur had said, all his, no strings attached.

Merlin suspected this had also been a ‘thank you for saving my life’ gift, as it had been given shortly after the incident with Lord Bayard and the poisoned chalice whose intended target was still a little fuzzy. Llamrei was certainly no war horse, of no use to any of the knights, but her easy, long-suffering temperament was just right for Merlin and his more intermediary horsemanship. He was exceedingly glad to be able to take her with him. At least here was something he didn’t have to give up.

By the time Gerund emerged from his tent, again with his blue cloak around his shoulders, all of the knights were awake and eating the stew Merlin had made as a means of keeping himself busy and engaged. He caught Merlin’s eye and inclined his head respectfully, the sort of informal acknowledgement that he had seen Leon give Uther outside of official meetings where a bow would have been the more appropriate form of greeting. He felt the color rise in his cheeks and he looked away quickly. Arthur’s eyes were hot on his back, which did nothing to help his discomfiture. Gwaine’s hand on his shoulder, though, drew a small grateful smile from him. The smile faded quickly when Elyan clapped him on the back and leaned over his shoulder with his usual friendly grin.

“What’s up with you this morning, Merlin?” he asked with a jaw-cracking yawn that distorted a few of his words. “Your face is longer than your horse’s.” The joke fell flat as all attention immediately turned to them and Merlin winced, knowing there was no stalling past this point. In the silence, Elyan looked around at all the impatient faces, his own brow furrowing in response. “Alright,” he said slowly. “What did I miss? And why did no one wake me for it?”

An uncomfortable silence greeted his question as the other knights looked between Merlin and Arthur expectantly, waiting for the explanation that had been promised to them. They all knew that something had happened with their king and his servant, something that involved a mage from another kingdom, but only two of them knew what. Gwaine and Mordred hung back from the scene and stayed silent, waiting to see how events would unfold.

Merlin kept his eyes determinedly on his own knees, examining his bloodless fingers twisted into the course fabric of his trousers. He would soon be wearing finer things, he supposed, silks and velvets maybe. He wondered in a sort of detached manner if he would be allowed to keep his neckerchief or if it would be deemed too ratty a thing for a king to wear. Arthur cleared his throat and Merlin breathed a silent sigh of relief as the attention shifted away from him at the noise, however brief the reprieve would be.

“Sir Gerund,” Arthur said. “If you would be so kind as to explain the message that you led us here to deliver?” The order was couched as a polite invitation, but it was clear to those who knew him as well as his knights did that Arthur was out of his depth and simply wished to delegate the unpleasant task to someone else. Gerund raised an eyebrow in surprise and looked uncertainly to Merlin, probably under the impression that he would rather tell them all himself. Merlin saw the question in his gaze and nodded permission for him to explain everything in his stead; he was only too happy not to have to say the words. Gerund hesitated, but he eventually turned his attention to the knights waiting with poorly concealed impatience written in every taut line of their faces.

“I brought you here so that I might be able to speak with Merlin,” he began with another glance at the man in question. Merlin didn’t meet his eyes this time, preferring to study his knees again rather than bear witness to this, but he nodded his encouragement anyway.

“Why would you need to do that?” Elyan asked.

“I was well acquainted with Merlin’s father, Balinor,” Gerund admitted. He looked ready to go on, but Leon interrupted him with a gasp that made Merlin flinch.

“Balinor, did you say?” he repeated, his dumbstruck expression leaving no doubt that he remembered the name and knew its significance. “Balinor, are you quite sure?”

“Who is Balinor?” Percival asked confusedly.

“He was the Dragonlord whose aid we sought during the great dragon’s attack on Camelot,” Leon responded. “We had hoped he would be able to control the beast, but he died before he reached the kingdom.”

“And in doing so, he left his legacy to his son,” Gerund said solemnly, ignoring the stunned noises made by the knights who didn’t already know. “Both his abilities and his kingdom.”

“His…his kingdom?” Percival spluttered in bewilderment, something that may have been a strangled attempt at the same question coming from Elyan. Leon seemed to be too shocked to respond at all. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut tightly, tucking his head against his chest and wishing the ground would simply swallow him whole so he wouldn’t have to look up and face his friends’ stunned expressions.

“Yes, his kingdom,” Gerund confirmed. “Our Queen Eleanor, who had been recently widowed, perished in a difficult birthing a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, we were unable to save her daughter. In absence of husband or child, the throne should have passed by proximity of blood back to her brother, Balinor. Instead, it falls to his son and heir.”

“Merlin?” Elyan asked incredulously.

“I was lucky to have been able to locate him at all, let alone as quickly as I did,” Gerund continued, unheeding of the knights’ apparent inability to comprehend his words. They were staring at him, Merlin knew. He could feel the sting of it, the prickling on the back of his neck, and he clenched his fists impossibly tighter to stop them from trembling, his grip nearly hard enough to tear a hole through his trouser leg.

“How did you?” Merlin finally looked up as Arthur spoke, his voice and face carefully schooled into neutrality. “Find him, I mean,” he clarified. “Until shortly before Balinor’s death, Merlin was unaware of his parentage, and Balinor of his progeny.”

“I’m afraid that is why the subterfuge was required, my lord,” Gerund admitted with a slight bow of apology. “The missive we sent to you was not the only one to be sent. We reached out to several kingdoms in the hope that news of our plight would reach the new Dragonlord’s ear. If it did, we knew that he would be obliged to come to our aid in subduing his wayward kin. We regretted the need for deception, but there was no other way for us to determine the identity of our heir.”

“So…there’s no dragon at all?” Percival asked in confusion.

“There are two,” Gerund told him, “but neither has made any move against us. Kilgharrah has always been a benevolent presence. His wisdom served us well before he left the kingdom with Balinor and it will undoubtedly do so again. As for the other…” Gerund trailed off, hesitancy clouding his features.

“The other?” Leon pressed, finding his voice at last.

“The other is in the company of Morgana,” Merlin heard himself say, his mouth acting without his permission. All eyes turned to him and he finally forced himself to unfold from his defensive position by the fire, rising to his feet even as he failed to lift his gaze from the ground. “Morgana has managed to win his loyalty, though I don’t know how. He is but a child, hardly more than an infant. He doesn’t understand the consequences of his actions, not that that excuses them. I don’t know how he fell in with her, but I fully intend to draw him back.”

No one spoke in response to this. Even Arthur was looking at him in shock now, his expression unreadable but his shoulders tight. This shouldn’t have been as much of a surprise as it felt, considering Arthur, Gwaine, and Mordred had all encountered Aithusa at Ismere and knew him to be in league with her. Maybe it was just Merlin’s involvement that made it seem worse somehow. Merlin was supposed to have protected him, to have raised him and made sure that he was well taken care of. Instead, he had neglected Aithusa and allowed him to be taken in by Morgana of all people. He was injured, stunted, sickly, stuck under Morgana’s hateful influence, and it was Merlin’s fault. He blamed himself, so why shouldn’t the knights do the same? Gerund shifted on his feet, his hand twitching ever so slightly toward the hilt of his sword as if he might be considering stepping in to defend his new sovereign from the potentially hostile knights, but he made no move to break the oppressive silence that reigned over them all.

“You’re leaving for Carthis immediately?” Gwaine spoke up, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his face uncharacteristically solemn. He already knew the answer, of course, but it was something to say in order to break the impasse. Merlin nodded dumbly, numbness finally creeping up to wipe out all other emotions as his friends stared at him in open astonishment, betrayal and disbelief and confusion warring for dominance. It was like he had reached a limit of how much he could feel in a given span of time and had stopped feeling entirely, unable to handle the onslaught. It was strangely pleasant. Maybe it was better this way, leaving Camelot, when the knights were looking at him like that.

“My lord, I would request permission to accompany them to Carthis,” Mordred said formally, stepping up from the fringe of the camp to stand by Merlin’s side. Arthur looked at him in surprise, as did the rest of the knights besides Gwaine, who had already known of this plan having been there when Merlin had proposed it, and Gerund, who Merlin suspected had most likely deduced the young knight’s magic in their talks the night before.

“Why, Sir Mordred?” Arthur inquired when he’d gotten his bearings again.

“As you know, sire, I grew up with the druids,” Mordred said carefully, which raised a bit of a murmur from the knights who hadn’t yet heard of that fact. “The camp to which I was born broke up and dispersed in order to avoid raids when I was still young. I have reason to believe that Carthis may be home to relatives of mine.” Merlin didn’t know if this was true or simply an excuse Mordred had concocted to explain his interest in a magical kingdom, but it seemed to be the right thing to say in any case. Arthur deliberated for a moment, his lips pursed, flicking an occasional glance at Merlin before he nodded curtly.

“Far be it for me to deny you your family. You have leave, Sir Mordred, to visit Carthis.” Merlin didn’t miss the slight emphasis on the word _visit_ , making it clear that Arthur expected Mordred to return to Camelot shortly, and neither did the knight in question, but he simply bowed his head in gratitude and shifted closer to Merlin’s side.

“Well,” Gerund said brusquely. “The sun is getting high. We had best be moving on if we want to reach Carthis before twilight falls. I’d like to introduce you to the council this afternoon, if at all possible.” Merlin’s head snapped up, eyes going wide and the comforting numbness giving way to panic once more.

“Today?” he yelped. He had been hoping for more time to think, to prepare himself for the enormity of what was happening to him, to adjust to the drastic change; he hadn’t yet managed to work past the feeling of surrealism, the thought that maybe this was all just a bizarre nightmare and he would wake up any moment now in his tiny room in Gaius’ chambers with Arthur bellowing through the hallways for him like he had a million times before.

“I know this is all moving very quickly, but time is of the essence,” Gerund said with an apologetic grimace. Merlin’s shoulders slumped with the reminder that the stability of a kingdom rested on this, on him. He rubbed at his face wearily, feeling the weight of stares on his back once again. He wondered if they were having as difficult a time processing all of this as he was.

“Alright,” he sighed, resignation making his words flat and toneless. “I guess we’d better get going then.” He moved off toward the horses, intending to check one more time the things he had already packed and secured at least twice since he woke up. It took a moment for the knights to gather their wits about them enough to copy him. They broke camp in a daze, shooting unsubtle looks in Merlin’s direction all the while. They didn’t seem capable of finding any words, but Merlin couldn’t blame them for that; he couldn’t think of anything to say either, after all.

“We will ride shortly, my Lord,” Gerund told him. Merlin flinched as Leon stared over incredulously at the deferential form of address, his bedroll falling from slack fingers to flop back into the dirt.

“No titles until absolutely necessary, Gerund, please,” he murmured a little desperately.

“Right, my apologies, my Lo—er, Merlin.” Gerund gave him a sheepish sort of smile and went to track down his own horse from where it had been grazing freely. Merlin fumbled with the straps on his pack, not caring that they were already fastened and secure.

“So,” began Elyan awkwardly, wandering over to attend to his own horse. “Magical king, eh?” The nonchalance was strained and forced, but Merlin appreciated the effort nonetheless; it gave him some hope that maybe his relationship with the knights wasn’t completely lost.

“Apparently so,” he responded, clearing his throat when the words came out gruff and hoarse. Elyan didn’t seem to have anything else to say and so remained silent. He finished tacking his horse and turned to leave. “Would you—” Merlin blurted out before he knew exactly what it was that he wanted to ask. Elyan looked back at him. “Just…tell Gwen, would you?” Merlin finished eventually. “Tell her that it wasn’t because I didn’t trust her that I didn’t tell her. I didn’t want to put her in danger by making her complicit in my crimes. She would have been judged as harshly as I under Uther’s laws.” Elyan examined him for a moment, his expression hard to read.

“And under Arthur’s?” he asked softly. Merlin looked away, unable to hold the knight’s disconcertingly direct gaze as shame spread through him like fire. Elyan had a point, of course he did. Arthur was not his father; he had proved that long ago. Merlin had thought often that maybe he was making a mistake in not trusting in him to do the right thing, but when the alternative was his death or banishment, he hadn’t been brave enough to take that chance. He heard Elyan’s footsteps retreating and he heaved a sigh, leaning for another moment on his mare’s sturdy neck. He hoped that Gwen would understand. She had been his first friend in Camelot, and he didn’t think he could bear to lose her, not after he’d already lost Arthur.

“Are you ready, Merlin?”

Merlin turned to see Mordred and Gerund on one side of the camp with reins in hand, the tent having been broken down and loaded onto the horses, and the rest of the party he had arrived with on the other, milling about a bit uncertainly. They were packed and ready to go, but they didn’t seem willing to leave just yet. They kept shooting anxious looks at Arthur as though waiting for him to put a stop to all this ridiculousness, maybe to call Merlin back or even to order his arrest, but he just stood at the head of his party and waited. Merlin led his mare to stand with Mordred’s and turned to face his king. Well. Former king, now.

“We will be in contact shortly, I suppose,” Arthur said stiffly, his diplomatic mask firmly in place.

“Of course,” Merlin said, making an effort to keep his voice steady, to meet Arthur’s blank gaze with his head held high despite the sliver of hurt driving into his stomach. As a newly crowned sovereign, he would no doubt have to correspond with plenty of foreign dignitaries to reaffirm ties and renegotiate alliances. It had nothing to do with him, with them, but with their kingdoms. He could expect nothing more. That didn’t stop him from adding, “Take care, Arthur.” It was Arthur who looked away this time. He motioned to his knights and mounted his horse. The others followed suit, except for Gwaine, who lingered.

“You take care, too, Merlin,” he said. “Look after yourself.” Merlin gave him a smile, a pathetic little thing but present even so.

“I will, Gwaine.” They nodded once more in lieu of a goodbye and Gwaine swung himself up into his saddle more smoothly than Merlin could ever hope to do. Arthur turned them towards Camelot and Merlin watched with a heavy heart as his friends disappeared into the trees. Mordred put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, and Merlin was surprised by how much comfort he drew from the simple gesture, from the offering of support, from a face he knew, even if it was one that had brought only fear and dread for many months. He would need a familiar face in the days to come.

“We have a ways to go,” Gerund said, subdued. Merlin simply nodded and mounted his horse, the others doing the same on either side of him. It felt odd to be in the middle for once, Merlin mused, knowing that those beside him where there to protect him from threats to his person. He had never been important enough to warrant such a central position in a travelling party. He had always been on the fringes, his eyes and his magic roving the trees for signs of danger, ready to defend Arthur at all costs. This was certainly a change. He didn’t protest the arrangement, though. He doubted there would be any point to it. Gerund spurred his horse forward and led the way in the opposite direction.

They rode without speaking for a long time, not really having anything to say to one another. Merlin felt drained, like he’d been wrung out and squeezed dry. The upheavals of the previous day didn’t seem to have left any emotion behind for this one. He let the gait of his horse soothe him into thoughtlessness, driving out any troublesome musings that would try to take over his mind in lieu of conversation with the steady clopping of hooves, the bunch and release of strong muscles beneath him. It worked for a while and he relished in the temporary absence of strong emotion wreaking havoc on his thought processes.

They rode on through the morning, making steady progress as the sun continued to rise. They stopped when it reached its zenith in order to rest and water the horses and eat some of the travel rations from their packs. Merlin sat on the bank of the small stream by which they had dismounted, refilling his water skin and just looking at the forest around them. Gerund’s claim of safety from the night before had proven true and they had not encountered any hostile parties, nor any parties at all.

It was all very peaceful here, the trees lush and green and the animals watching them curiously and without a hint of fear as they passed close by. Even the sunlight seemed brighter as it filtered greenly through the canopy of leaves to cast dappled shadows on the forest floor, the cool air crisper and sweeter in his lungs, and Merlin’s magic was practically glowing under his skin, pleading to be released, to reach out and meld with the earth beneath his feet.

“This place,” he said without turning to his two companions, speaking quietly so as not to disturb the strange sanctity he felt here. “It’s so…alive.”

“The magic of this land is healthy and content,” Gerund said. “We are in harmony with the earth, and we honor her as she deserves to be honored. In turn, she welcomes us.” Merlin turned to look at him.

“So that’s what I’m feeling?” he asked. “The magic in the earth?” The dragon had said much the same thing when he’d asked about Carthis, that it was balanced. Gerund nodded.

“I imagine the land in kingdoms such as Camelot has had the magic leached from it,” he said with a deep sadness, feeling true pain at the thought of such a fate. “Nature is not so forgiving there as it is here.” As if to illustrate his point, a small rabbit, his spotted brown fur making him nearly invisible in the undergrowth, hopped forth from his warren to sniff curiously at Merlin’s boot, only bounding away when the warlock stood up.

“How long until we reach Carthis?” he asked, noting the placement of the sun in the sky overhead. He wasn’t sure what he wanted the answer to be.

“We have made good time so far,” Gerund said. “We should reach the city in a few hours, maybe less than that.” Merlin nodded and fiddled with his neckerchief, wincing as the bruises hidden by it twinged in protest. “Would you…would you like for me to heal those for you?” Gerund offered tentatively. Merlin started, surprised; the idea of using magic to heal the bruises had not even occurred to him, though it probably should have. It would not be the best first impression to show up before the council in coarse, well-worn peasant’s clothes, coated in three days’ worth of travel grime, and with a distinct handprint round his throat.

“I guess you’d better,” he conceded. “I’ve never gotten the hang of healing spells myself, no matter how many times I’ve tried.” Really, he would have thought by now, what with all the times Arthur had gotten injured or nearly killed, he would have managed a few simple healing spells. Alas, they just never seemed to work for him. He was better at hurting people than he was at healing them, he guessed. And wasn’t that just the way of things.

“We have many renowned healers in Carthis, if you would like to learn more about the art of healing. They are always happy to share their knowledge and their skills with any who will stand still long enough to listen,” Gerund said with a chuckle. He stepped close and gently laid the palm of his hand along the side of Merlin’s neck, just over his neckerchief where the bruises were visible. “ _Gelàcne_ ,” he intoned, the word tripping off his tongue with the ease of familiarity, and with none of the undertone of fear and caution that could be heard whenever Merlin spoke words of the Old Religion. A rush of coolness flooded over his skin made him shiver with the sensation, but when Gerund moved away, the stiff soreness that had plagued him since his violent encounter with Arthur was gone and his skin was left unmarked.

“Thank you,” he murmured, reaching up to trace the unblemished skin with the tips of his fingers. It tingled faintly under his touch, a remnant of Gerund’s magic reacting to his. Some small part of him felt guilty for allowing himself to be healed. He deserved those bruises for all he had done, for how he had hurt Arthur. He would have borne his punishment gladly for as long as he had to, but he understood that appearance was of the utmost importance in a royal court, and if he was to be accepted there—and he did want to be accepted, he realized, whether or not he actually wanted to be there at all—he could not show up looking like a vagabond who came out worst in a tavern brawl.

The three of them remounted their horses and rode once more for Carthis. Now that he was more aware of it, Merlin could feel the difference between this forest and the more familiar ones of Camelot as they travelled, the way their surroundings became more saturated with magic with every step they took toward the center of the kingdom. One glance at Mordred showed that he was feeling it too, an open sort of joy painted across his face. It was as if everything around them was vibrating, alive and somehow much more than itself.

It was more magic than Merlin had ever felt in one place, with the possible exception of the Isle of the Blessed, but all his journeys there had been tainted and overshadowed by the dark magic of the twisted High Priestesses that he had been fighting against at those times. This here was pure and balanced magic that called out to his own and made it sing in his veins. It was a beautiful feeling, intoxicating, making him feel a bit lightheaded if he focused on it for too long.

“Does everyone in Carthis have magic?” Mordred asked. Merlin turned, interest piqued, in time to see Gerund shake his head.

“Magic may be a prominent part of our culture, but no, not all of our citizens possess magic of their own. Magical and secular peoples live side by side in Carthis, coexisting peacefully,” the mage said, unmistakable pride coloring his tone. “The kingdom was, however, founded with and by magic.”

“How so?” Merlin asked curiously. “I realize that I know next to nothing about my own kingdom.” He tried to think back over his time in Camelot, even back to his childhood, searching for any reference made to Carthis, but he couldn’t remember anything. If there had been talk of Carthis, it had never reached his ears. And now he found himself destined for the throne of a kingdom about which he knew only the barest of facts. He should know something, at least, by the time they got there. How could he rule a kingdom he did not understand?

“Carthis is one of the oldest kingdoms in all of Albion, and the kingdom with the most peaceful history,” Gerund explained. “It has been ruled by one family and one family alone since it was first founded—your family, Merlin. You come from an ancient line of Dragonlords, powerful sorcerers all of them, descended from the very first man to be gifted with the ability. And, of course, no one wants to incur the wrath of a dragon by rising up against his Lord, but that is not why your family’s reign has always been such a peaceful one. The wisdom and foresight of the dragons has long been key in allowing your ancestors to rule justly and mercifully, and the people have always flourished under their sovereignty.”

Merlin found himself smiling, growing warm at the thought. Pride bloomed deep in his heart for the great deeds of the forefathers he had never known he had and the compassion they had displayed consistently for so many generations. His was a legacy of kindness and clemency, of peace and wisdom. He had never had a legacy before, something to live up to. It scared him a bit, knowing that the bar was set so high, but the warm feeling didn’t fade even as the pressure to match them made his hands shake a bit.

“There have been few wars, and those only brief,” Gerund continued. “For the most part, we have remained isolated. With the help of magic, Carthis is almost entirely self-sufficient. Outside trade is a benefit, of course, but it is not strictly a necessity. We could close our borders completely at a moment’s notice if the need arose and bear very little hardship because of it.”

“And you have never been attacked by the kingdoms that view magic in all its forms as a threat to be rid of?” Merlin asked. It was hard to imagine that Uther had not ridden out immediately, in his grief and his paranoia, with an army at his back to force the perceived evil from the land. An entire kingdom of sorcerers. Surely he could not have turned a blind eye.

“Most were wise enough to stay their hand,” Gerund said grimly, his expression hardening a bit. “Carthis is a small kingdom, but it is a mighty one. Our army is formidable, though it does get little use outside of reinforcing our borders and keeping the peace internally. There have been…infiltrations, on occasion, but they have only been successful a scant handful of times. Those few who did move against us learned quickly not to do so again.” Gerund’s mouth tightened, his lips thinning as he pressed them together. Merlin remembered what he had been told in the tent, that his aunt Theanor had been assassinated. It seemed like the sort of thing Uther, or maybe someone like King Odin, would have ordered. He wondered bitterly if he would lose all his family to Uther’s hatred of magic.

“And your forces,” Mordred put in. “Are they solely mages, or do you employ secular knights as well?”

“We have those trained solely with weaponry as well as those learned in magic,” Gerund told him, the tautness of his features giving way to an easy smile once more. “Even those who fight primarily with magic are required to be proficient with at least one secular weapon, though. There are a number of ways in which magic can be subdued, and it would not do for our sorcerers to be left defenseless in such a situation as that.”

“I guess I’ll have to work on my swordsmanship then,” Merlin grumbled, not looking forward to the prospect. Gerund chuckled.

“As sovereign, it will not be required that you train the knights and mages yourself. Queen Eleanor did not, though she herself was quite handy with a sword and a crossbow, and so others are already in place to do so. Unless, of course, you wish to take over.”

“Oh no, no, no,” Merlin said quickly. “I can barely hold a sword the right way up. And I don’t have any magical training beyond what I’ve figured out through trial and error and a handful of spells from an old book I got when I was maybe seventeen. It wouldn’t do to have me try to teach anyone anything.” Gerund laughed aloud at the vehemence of Merlin’s denial.

“Well, we have the most learned and skilled masters in all the land, of magic and swordsmanship alike. If you would like to be taught rather than teach, then that can be arranged,” he said with a smile. “I’m sure our High Priest would be thrilled to have a pupil so naturally gifted as you under his tutelage.” Merlin flushed in embarrassment, but he couldn’t hide the thrill that went through him at the thought of actually studying magic, of being allowed to work and grow and test himself. He had never had the chance to push his boundaries, to learn the extent of his abilities. Maybe now he would finally get that chance.

“At what age do you usually begin your training?” Mordred inquired.

“Most show signs of magic around age ten, if they are to show any at all, but instruction can be found for any age group should they need it,” Gerund explained. Merlin marveled at the man’s patience, to be answering all their questions with such a tolerant air, but he seemed to be enjoying their enthusiasm. “The military training is much like that of secular knights, with youths working as assistants to more experienced fighters and learning from their example, and then entering a more regimented training program at around thirteen years. The youngest one can be knighted or dubbed a mage is sixteen years of age.

“Do you train the knights and mages yourself?” Merlin asked. When Arthur was too busy with his kingly duties to train the knights himself as he would like, Leon, as his First Knight, would take on that responsibility in his stead. Gerund had introduced himself as the Foremost Mage of Carthis, and he had already told them that the Queen had not overseen the training, so it would stand to reason that it would fall to him.

“I used to,” Gerund said with a modest dip of his head, “but I passed on that mantle a few years ago; my magic is still as strong as ever but I am getting far too old to be beaten down with a sword every day. For the last few years my primary duty has the protection of the queen.”

“I presume you will be protecting me as well, then?” Merlin asked wryly. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about people thinking that he needed to be protected. Lacking in formal training though he may be, he was still the most powerful warlock to ever exist, if the prophesies were to be believed. Besides, he had been doing the protecting for so long that he didn’t think he knew how to do anything else.

“If you will have me,” Gerund answered. “I would be glad to act in an advisory capacity as well, as I did with Eleanor for many years.”

“Thanks for that. I think I’m probably going to need all the advice I can get,” Merlin muttered darkly. Gerund barked out another laugh, deep and full of true amusement. Even Mordred chuckled a bit.

“I think that you underestimate yourself, Merlin,” the young knight said. “You have been advising Arthur on matters of state for a long time now. He has always trusted your judgment. You would do well to do the same.” Merlin shook his head, steadfastly ignoring the way he automatically relegated the statement to the past tense in his mind. Arthur _had_ always trusted his judgment. Those days were long gone now, he was sure.

“That was different,” he insisted. “Matters of morality and doing the right thing are something I feel comfortable taking a stand on. But I know nothing of politics and royal courts.”

“You know far more than you think you do,” Mordred said surely. “You just need to have faith in yourself.” Merlin sighed but didn’t bother to argue the point any further. The dragon had said much the same thing. They both seemed to think that he was perfectly capable of this, of ruling a kingdom. If only he could have that same confidence in himself. Instead, all he had was a crippling fear of failure and a pervasive feeling of total inferiority. Somehow, he didn’t think those would be conducive to a good rule.

A shiver of magic running down his spine and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end distracted him from his introspections. He immediately jerked his head up to scan the surrounding area, seeing no immediate signs of danger but knowing better than to assume that meant they were safe. Despite what many of the knights of Camelot seemed to think, magic was not all smoke and flame and loud noises. It could be invisible and silent while still being dangerous, killing you before you ever saw it coming.

“Peace, Merlin, all is well,” Gerund assured him, having noticed his sudden vigilance but looking unconcerned. Mordred too was looking wary, a bit doubtful of his words.

“What was that?” Merlin asked suspiciously, all senses on high alert for the source of the magic he had felt.

“It was only the Perimeter,” Gerund answered.

“The Perimeter?” Mordred questioned.

“It is a magical boundary that surrounds the main city of Carthis, about an hour out from the walls in every direction. Those sorcerers whose spells fortify it are alerted to anyone passing through.”

“So they know that we’re coming?” Merlin asked with a sinking feeling; he didn’t like the thought of showing up to find a crowd waiting for him.

“They know that someone is coming,” Gerund corrected him. “Three someones, to be exact. The more powerful of them may be able to recognize me, since they know me well and are familiar with my magical signature, but you are both unknown entities to them, never having passed through the Perimeter before. Individuals and small groups that pass through are mostly ignored, as they are usually just travelers or hunting parties. Larger groups warrant more attention, as you can imagine.”

“So we’ll be reaching the city soon?” Mordred asked, unable to contain the excitement he felt at the prospect. His eyes were wide and he clutched at the reins of his horse with a white knuckle grip, looking as though he might vault right out of his seat and run to Carthis if that would get him there more quickly.

“Within the hour,” Gerund confirmed.

Merlin’s stomach was an uncomfortable knot of conflicted emotions vying for dominance. A part of him was as excited as Mordred was, thrilled beyond belief at the thought of experiencing freedom and acceptance the likes of which he had never even dreamt of before. Another part still shrunk back in fear at the daunting task he had been given and the very real consequences that would befall the people of Carthis should he not prove to be worthy of the position he was to take up.

And another part, deeper down beneath all the others, yearned to reach out, to learn of his own history, his ancestors, his father. He had spent years in his childhood trying to bury those feelings, that desire to know someone he would never be able to, but now it was all within his grasp and that desperate need for kinship, for understanding, came flooding back. Even if he had never been there before, hardly even heard of it, Carthis was _his_ ; it was in his blood, and something in him seemed to know that, reaching out to the home of his forefathers.

The first thing he saw of Carthis was the tip of a tower, with a long blue banner emblazoned with the crest of his family flapping in the light easterly wind. Merlin’s hand found the signet ring he had left in his pocket, tracing the intricate patterns with the pad of his thumb but making no move to put it on, not yet at least. The tower, he marveled as they drew nearer, was far more slender and delicate than it should have been for its impressive height. Its snowy white stone shone almost painfully bright against the blue of the cloudless sky at its back. More and more of the structure became visible over the line of trees, beautifully designed and masterfully built. It had been constructed with magic, it had to have been. By all rights, the weight of the soaring towers and high walls should have been too much for the slim stones, far thinner than those of Camelot’s castle, to support, but he could feel that this castle had stood proudly for many hundreds of years.

“It’s beautiful,” Mordred breathed in awe. Merlin nodded his agreement, momentarily struck dumb at the crushing realization that this castle was _his_ , his by right of birth. His father had grown up in this glorious structure, had run and played in its corridors, had attended meetings and feasts in its banquet halls, had been offered its throne and turned it down, and now it would all fall to him.

He wondered if Arthur felt this way upon seeing Camelot’s castle, overwhelmed and humbled, hardly daring to believe that such a thing could possibly be meant for him. He thought that he understood now why Arthur second guessed his every decision, rethinking and over-thinking every choice that he was expected to make until he nearly drove himself mad with it. It was all to be sure, absolutely sure, that he did the best that he could by those living in the shadow of his castle. And Merlin would do the same, he knew. He was not worthy of this, this magnificent palace or the enormous weight of responsibility that it carried with it, of that he was sure. But if the responsibility would be his to bear anyway, then he would do his damnedest to make himself so.


	8. Chapter Seven

The city of Carthis was enclosed by a wall which towered higher than any Camelot could ever have hoped to build, snaking its way around it in a near perfect circle of graceful white stone. Along the top were ranged a number of guards in a dark uniform accented with that same royal blue, some with crossbows or longbows in hand and others not requiring mundane weapons, all treading their patrol routes and keeping a keen eye on the city streets spread out beneath them like a map. A ripple of motion ran down the line as the guards caught sight of the party making its way toward them and each turned to inform the one beside him. By the time the small travelling party reached the elaborate wrought-iron gates guarding the entrance to the city, the message of their arrival had been passed along to the gate’s keepers and it was opening wide to admit them.

The gates, tall as they may have been, were probably not nearly as intimidating as they felt to Merlin, but in his apprehension they seemed to be closing in on him from above as he passed through them, looming over him and threatening to collapse and trap him there. They did no such thing, of course, and Merlin made it through unscathed and feeling a little foolish for his irrational fear.

The guards were watching them curiously, some even going so far as to lean over the balustrade to get a better view of the men accompanying their Foremost Mage. Merlin ducked his head against their looks, very conscious of the three days’ worth of the dust and dirt kicked up by the horses’ hooves that coated him from head to toe, of the threadbare quality of the tatty old neckerchief that had been in his possession since before he had left Ealdor for Camelot eleven years ago, of the place in which a very determined rat had managed to gnaw a hole through the side of his left boot despite the spells he had put in place to prevent just that.

He did not want to be examined by these people, did not want this to be their first impression of the man who would soon be their king. He held on to the hope that they didn’t yet know who he was, despite the fact that they had most likely known of Gerund’s search and of the person he was seeking and were drawing their own conclusions as to his identity. Though they were more likely to suspect Mordred of being important than him; Mordred had stowed his red cloak in his saddlebags, but he still wore the chainmail that marked him as a knight of somewhere.

The town built around the base of the castle was not a whole lot different from the lower town of Camelot. The houses weren’t as ramshackle as the ones to which he was accustomed, as they were no doubt held together with a touch of magic, but they were still packed closely together on either side of the main road, interspersed with stalls and carts and barrels of wares that comprised the marketplace. Even though the light was beginning to fade from the sky, the day already drawing to a close, there were still people out and about on the streets, attending to their business while they still had the time to do so.

There was a thin woman with a gauzy scarf wrapped around her hair using magic to levitate a large jug of water from the well, clearly unable to have lifted it by hand, who passed them by. A very old man with a walking stick propped on his knee sat in the doorway of his house with a gaggle of small and very excited children at his feet, entertaining them by conjuring a shower of sparks from his fingertips and forming them into different shapes at the children’s eager requests. As Merlin watched, a young girl with freshly laundered linens piled high in her arms stumbled over a rock in the street and the pile began to teeter dangerously. It was steadied from afar by a young man’s hastily called spell. Once she regained her grip and her balance, the girl smiled at him with a blush staining her cheeks and he smiled back shyly, tipping his hat to her.

All around him was magic being used out in the open, freely and without restraint. No one ducked their heads to hide the shift in the color of their eyes, no one lowered their voices when they incanted a spell, no one looked over their shoulder before they spoke. People were helping each other with magic, not hesitating to offer their skills or to accept someone else’s in return. Merlin squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could for a moment, stars appearing behind his eyelids, and then opened them again to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming.

But the scene had not changed and he had to blink back the tears that threatened to fall, struggling to breathe through the sudden constriction of his chest, nearly overcome by the sight of something that he had always considered to be all but impossible, an idle fantasy, an unrealistic ideal. It had been so long since he had truly believed that he and Arthur could achieve all that the prophecies said that they were going to; he hadn’t realized just how hopeless he had become until he saw his goal lain out in front of him and found that he had never truly expected to live long enough to see it become a reality.

The people on the streets called out greetings to Gerund as they passed him and the mage responded to each in kind, waving and returning their smiles and calling each and every one of them by name. He was obviously well-loved among the people in the lower town, his manner friendly and approachable, treating each person that he encountered as his equal and therefore worthy of respect. Merlin wondered if his father would have been the same, if he would have been the sort of king to mingle with his people and speak to them individually, to look them all in the eye and listen closely to what they had to say. Would he have been as loved by his people as his best friend now was had he not been forced into reclusion to become the bitter and jaded man whom Merlin had known for such a brief time? He hoped that would have been the case, but they would never know.

Overall, the city seemed to be a happy place, but there was an undercurrent of tension, a sort of wariness just below the jovial surface that added a nervous energy to everyone’s movements. It was no doubt the product of the death of their queen, of the uncertainty that came with having no one on the throne and the worry that someone would try to seize it by force. There were more guards ranged around the city proper than were strictly necessary, and more were set in place at the base of the palace, their eyes scanning the crowds cautiously for any sign of trouble. These guards parted without hesitation, though, to let Gerund and his guests into the courtyard of the palace, whispers springing up in the wake of their passage.

A small crowd was gathering around them, far enough back so as not to be intrusive but near enough that it was clear that they were hoping to overhear any conversation that might pass between them. Gerund ignored them and led Merlin and Mordred toward what were most likely the royal stables. He swung himself down from his gelding and passed the reins off to a waiting stable hand, indicating that they should do the same. When they had, he told the boy to make sure that their steeds were treated with the utmost respect and care, and ordered that their things be taken to the best chambers in the west wing. The boy looked a bit taken aback at this order, his gaze flicking back over them as if he was reconsidering his opinion of them, but he hastened to obey anyway.

Gerund led them up the long flight of steps to a set of wide double doors which were opened for them by another pair of uniformed guards. Merlin trailed in after him, trying not to cower away from the eyes he felt on his back. The castle was more spacious than Camelot’s, brightly lit by tall windows spaced evenly down the corridors. The chambermaids they passed nodded to Gerund and watched them all curiously as the three of them made their way toward the center of the castle.

Much sooner than Merlin would have hoped for, they stood before the doors to the council chambers, hearing the low murmur of voices from the meeting taking place within. He felt like he might be sick, his stomach currently trying to force its way out of his mouth but not quite able to fight its way past the heart that was stuck in his throat. He straightened his clothing with shaking hands and attempted to fix the way his hair was sticking up in the back despite the fact that he had determined that to be a lost cause a long time ago.

“Now, remember, Merlin,” Gerund said, turning to clasp his shoulder. “You have every right to be here. The blood of kings runs through your veins. Don’t let anyone persuade you otherwise.” Merlin swallowed audibly but nodded anyway; he didn’t feel like he had the blood of kings, but like someone had replaced his bones with jelly. Gerund held his eye a moment longer, trying to give him courage by that alone. Then he gestured to the guards and they pulled the doors wide.

The council room contained a long, narrow table which had carvings that might have been runes or symbols of the Old Religion along its edges. It was lined with high backed chairs of a similar make and style. Seated in them were men—and a number of women, Merlin was surprised to see—wearing long blue robes similar to the cloak that Gerund still had slung around his shoulders, each with the crest stitched on the left side of the chest. Merlin felt rather clumsily for the signet ring in his pocket, for the tangible proof of his paternity and his claim to the throne and his right to be in this place at all, tracing the ridges of the minute dragons’ scales and the swirls of fire on the band. The conversation the councilors had been in the middle of faltered and died almost immediately upon their entrance as all eyes turned toward the sudden intrusion into their meeting.

“Sir Gerund,” a very old and rather rotund man seated near the head of the table said as he clambered laboriously to his feet. “You have returned.”

“That I have, Lord Melbourne,” Gerund said, lowering his head in a respectful greeting which the Lord stiffly returned.

“You were not gone long,” a man closer to Merlin’s own age, perhaps a few years older, said from the middle of the table where he was leaning back in his seat, tapping his fingers against the table’s edge in a repetitive pattern. “I take it that you have finally been forced to acknowledge the futility of this ridiculous search of yours?” A few other members of the council chuckled, as if this was a long running joke among them. A muscle in Gerund’s temple jumped sporadically as he clenched his jaw but he displayed no other outward sides of irritation.

“Far from it,” he said calmly. “My ridiculous search was, in fact, a success.” The mirth faded at this statement, uncertainty creeping up on the faces of various councilors while others scoffed and exchanged sidelong looks of skepticism with their neighbors. None of them paid the slightest bit of attention to either Merlin or Mordred at Gerund’s back.

“A success?” the young lord repeated with a bark of laughter. He rose to his feet with the swagger of a man certain of his place in the world. “You mean to say that you actually _found_ this mysterious heir that you are so determined to believe exists?”

“There was never any doubt as to his existence, Lord Ellison,” Gerund said, his polite tone noticeably forced now. “A new dragon was hatched in the time since the late prince’s death.”

“There are still plenty of people with the affinity, Gerund,” Ellison drawled with an unconcerned gesture of his hand.

“A new dragon can only be called forth from its egg by a Dragonlord in full possession of his powers, as you well know,” Gerund snapped impatiently. “No one with an affinity, no matter how strong, could have accomplished such a deed.” Ellison raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, apparently conceding the point as one for which he did not have a rebuttal, but he smiled indulgently around at the other councilors as if he were only humoring Gerund. Merlin didn’t understand this talk of affinities, but he understood there was something else going on here, some history he was missing where this Lord was concerned.

“And you claim to have found this man?” Ellison asked, his voice practically dripping with doubt. “You have actually located the heir of our late, great Prince Balinor?” Merlin bristled at the delicate slight underlining his words, the sarcastic lilt he put on the word _great_ , and he saw Gerund clench his fists tightly by his sides as well.

“Yes,” the mage gritted out. “I have.”

Ellison moved toward them, his hands spread wide in an all-encompassing gesture that was both an invitation and a challenge. It was the same motion Arthur had made in Merlin’s very first encounter with him, back when he was arrogant and cocksure, completely certain of his superiority and looking to bait his opponent into humiliating himself. Ellison looked around the room, eyes passing right over the two men standing directly behind Gerund without the slightest pause. He still had a smug little half-smile on his face; while his demeanor was reminiscent of a young Arthur, that smile reminded Merlin so strongly of Agravaine, of the way he would smirk behind Arthur’s back when he knew something was going to go badly, that he had to clamp down on the sudden urge to obliterate the man where he stood.

“Well?” Lord Ellison prompted. “We’re waiting. Where is this long lost prince of yours?”

That was his cue. Merlin stepped forward to stand at Gerund’s right hand. Ellison glanced over at him briefly as he moved, but almost immediately returned his expectant gaze to Gerund, evidently still waiting for him to produce a prince. The obvious dismissal pricked at his pride and Merlin straightened his stance instinctively, pulling his shoulders back and raising his head high. He did belong here, he could feel it in his bones. There was something in the runes inscribed on the council table, lingering in the air itself, in the very stones beneath his feet, some remnant of the ancient magic that had shaped and laid them, that recognized Merlin’s own magic as kin. It called to him, resonating deep within his soul and lending steel to his spine. He belonged here, in the home of his forefathers, and he would _not_ be looked down upon in his own castle.

“That would be me,” he said, and his voice, strong and clear, much more so than he would have expected it to be just a few moments ago, seemed to echo around the chamber. His indignation had washed away any lingering fear, at least for the moment. Ellison did look at him this time, allowing his eyes to scan Merlin appraisingly from head to toe. His lip curled upward in displeasure at what he saw. He turned to Gerund with a raised eyebrow, not even bothering to dignify the claim by expressing his skepticism out loud.

“Lord Ellison, other esteemed members of the council,” Gerund announced formally, addressing the statement to the room as a whole, “may I present to you all Prince Merlin Ambrosius, son of the late Crown Prince Balinor.” The addition of the surname caught Merlin a little off guard—he had never had a surname before, after all, low born as he had been and without a father whose name he could take in its stead—but he didn’t allow his expression to show his surprise. Instead he stood tall and proud, meeting Lord Ellison’s disbelieving eyes without flinching. Then Ellison began to laugh.

“Surely, Sir Gerund, you do not expect us to believe that?” he asked through continued laughter. Merlin’s offense was mollified slightly by the fact that none of the other councilors seemed at all inclined to join in; they were looking between Gerund’s face, hardened by anger at Lord Ellison’s ill-mannered display, and Merlin’s own, reading the solemnity there and realizing that it was no laughing matter. “You claim that this…this _boy_ ,” Ellison sneered, waving a hand at Merlin, “is the long-lost prince that you’ve spent the last month tracking down, the heir to the purest Dragonlord ability of them all? Ha!” Gerund opened his mouth angrily but Merlin responded before he could, unable to let such an insult to his person go unanswered.

“This _boy_ ,” he said with ice in his tone, “is no such thing. And if you will not do me the simple courtesy of addressing me directly, then I would ask that you at least refrain from such blatant disrespect while in my presence.”

The silence that followed was strained and heavy with trepidation as Merlin and a no longer laughing Ellison locked eyes, staring each other down across the few feet that separated them. The councilors seemed to be holding their breath as they waited for Lord Ellison to react. He was looking at Merlin through narrowed eyes, their watery blue taking on a more considering edge as he reevaluated his opponent. A slow, sharp smile spread over his face and he dipped his head diffidently.

“My apologies, of course,” he said in an overly gracious tone that spoke of anything but sincerity. “No offense was intended. I merely meant to express my surprise that the prince whom we have sought for so long would be so…” He trailed off delicately, glancing down at Merlin’s clothes, which were clearly of a quality so low that no one with noble blood could be expected to wear them, even during travel. Merlin would not allow himself to succumb to gestures of self-consciousness, not when there were evaluating stares pressing in on him from all sides. He needed to project an air of confidence, of authority, the way Arthur always did. He needed to command the room with his presence alone. He needed to behave like a prince, like a king, even if he did not look like one, or they would never believe him to be capable of fulfilling the role.

“I will confess,” he said in a tightly controlled voice, “that until recently I was ignorant of the fact that my father was born of a royal family.” The shocked murmurs that followed this admission were not unexpected; the implications of the statement were evident to anyone who knew what to listen for. The eldest of the council members, Lord Melbourne, spoke first, leaning heavily against the table.

“And what exactly do you mean by that?” Merlin could practically hear the implied ‘ _boy_ ’ at the end, held back only because of the scathing response he had given to Ellison.

“I mean exactly what I say,” Merlin held, refusing to back down in the face of the man’s obvious disdain. “Until yesterday, I did not know hardly anything of my father beyond the ability that he passed down to me upon his death nine years ago.”  If they had suspected the truth from his previous statement, this one confirmed it, and the reactions all around the table were suitably scandalized.

“You would bring a bastard before this court and propose him fit to rule?” a heavy-set man with a ruddy face and a scowl demanded of Gerund, levering himself out of his seat and looking outraged by the very concept. For the first time, Merlin was glad of the many years in his childhood for which “bastard” had been the first insult out of any bully’s mouth, because it meant that he had long since stopped flushing with shame and indignation when the damning word was thrown in his face. When he had first arrived at Camelot he might have blustered his way straight into the dungeons had someone said such a thing to him, but now he bore the slur with little more than a slight clenching of his teeth.

“Really, Gerund, _this_ is the alternative you present to us?” Ellison said. “Are you really so opposed to my rule that you would support a bastard in my stead?” Merlin was shocked into finally looking in Gerund’s direction; he had said nothing about there being another candidate to the throne.

“Merlin’s claim is as strong as yours,” Gerund insisted without returning Merlin’s accusatory gaze, though he must have noticed it.

“The law states that only those children who are born of an observed marriage, or those who have been publically acknowledged and endorsed by their fathers, are eligible to rule,” one of the ladies near the end of the table recited staunchly.

“And the law also states that only those of the house of Ambrosius may take the throne,” Gerund argued. “There has never before been a ruler who was not either a Dragonlord or one who bore the affinity. The ability to call and consult the dragons is a hallmark of the office, one of the pillars on which this kingdom was built.”

“There are only two dragons left, and only one available to us. He will not live forever and his wisdom will die with him,” Ellison said harshly. “Why should the ability to call that which no longer exists be of any importance any longer?”

“If the eggs in the vaults were to be hatched, the dragons may not be lost to us,” Gerund said fiercely, which drew a soft gasp from Merlin’s lips; the existence of more eggs, the possibility of saving the race of dragons, was so far beyond anything he had ever imagined that he couldn’t contain the sound. More eggs. If any of the dragons contained within were female, then the species could potentially be saved. His astonishment went unheeded, though, as the others continued to argue around him. “And Kilgharrah still has years before him,” Gerund was saying. “His counsel cannot be so callously disregarded.”

“Eleanor’s reign did not suffer for its lack,” the heavy-set councilor protested. Merlin winced; from what he had heard, Eleanor had been a fine and gracious queen even without the support of any dragon’s council. The only way to counter that particular point would be to imply that Ellison was a lesser person than Queen Eleanor and not fit to rule without guidance, and somehow Merlin did not see that particular comment ending in any favorable way. So as Gerund puffed up to retort, Merlin decided that he had had quite enough of this foolish quarrelling.

“Why don’t we ask Kilgharrah what he thinks?” he broke in loud enough to get the attention of all the men and women in the room. They turned to look at him in surprise, even Gerund, as if the idea had not occurred to them at all. Granted, it likely hadn’t, as none of them possessed the ability to summon the dragon and therefore they were unlikely to have considered it a possibility. “If you need proof of my heritage, then that should do the trick quite nicely. And if you would like reassurance of my abilities despite the status of my birth, then I’m sure that Kilgharrah will be more than happy to answer any questions that you may have.”

The council members looked among themselves, considering the idea. Sometime during the heated argument, Lord Ellison had lost that cocky, self-assured air that Merlin now knew had come from the belief that he would soon be crowned king, and was scowling fiercely around at them all as if they were traitors.

“Surely you aren’t entertaining this…this _farce_ of a claim?” Ellison exclaimed.

“If Kilgharrah comes to his call,” said an elderly councilwoman with her silver hair swept up into an elegant bun and netted with gold thread, “then I believe his claim will stand.”

“He’s a bastard, Penbrook,” the heavy-set man repeated yet again, as if the point had not already been made abundantly clear.

“With the means of proving his royal blood,” Lady Penbrook countered serenely. “He does not need acknowledgement if his paternity is not in question.”

“He is illegitimate!”

“He is a Dragonlord.”

“I have seen no proof of that.”

“I would be happy to prove it to you,” Merlin broke in impatiently, more than a little fed up with being ignored and spoken of as if he were not there. “However, the daylight is already faded and my companion and I have been travelling for some time. Might I suggest that it may be more prudent to put off all necessary demonstrations until tomorrow?”

“I would be amenable,” Lady Penbrook said easily, despite the way Melbourne, Ellison, and the brash, red-faced man for whom Merlin had yet to catch a name were all attempting to stare her into submission. “The hour grows late, my friends. Let us all retire for the evening and revisit the discussion in the morning.” Lord Melbourne did not look at all happy with this decision, but he held his tongue; apparently Lady Penbrook’s opinion carried enough weight with the other council members that he didn’t dare kick up a fuss. He growled a dismissal and the men and women began getting to their feet, lingering around the chambers in twos and threes as they discussed the developments of the day amongst themselves.

Merlin felt some of the tenseness in his shoulders ebb away as soon as twenty pairs of eyes were no longer fixed on him, probing, examining, judging. The muscles in his back and shoulders felt tired and sore from how tightly he had been holding himself. The servant portion of his mind, the part of him that had actually listened and taken to heart the many times that Arthur had tried to beat propriety and respect into his head, was absolutely horrified at the way he had dared to speak to these people.

They were powerful people all of them, highborn and venerated, and they were without a doubt used to being treated with the high regard that was afforded to them by their station. But if Merlin had behaved as a servant, as anything less than their equal, then they would view him as such and treat him accordingly; they would never be able to see him as their leader, their king, if he bowed and scraped like a serving boy. As it stood, he would treat them with respect when they returned the favor and not a moment sooner. He could not back down, could not let himself be looked down upon, could not show any weakness, or they would eat him alive.

“Pay no mind to Lord Tennison,” came a voice from over his shoulder. Merlin started—he had not heard anyone approaching him—and turned to see the old woman with silver hair who had spoken for him where the dragon was concerned, Lady Penbrook. Penbrook, seeing Merlin’s confusion at the name he was not familiar with, gestured with her head and Merlin followed the Lady’s gaze to the heavy-set man who seemed to be so personally insulted by Merlin’s illegitimate birth. He was speaking in low, harsh whispers with Ellison, half hidden from Merlin’s view by a set of support pillars and sending occasional vitriolic looks in his direction. “He wants nothing more than for his son to be on the throne. I’m afraid your claim is a rather large obstacle, one which he may not be able to overcome.”

“His son?” Merlin asked. Penbrook nodded with another glance in the other Lord’s direction. Merlin looked back and understood only after a long moment of confusion.

Now that he saw them standing side by side, he could see the resemblance between Lords Tennison and Ellison; they had the same blocky shoulders, nearly identical noses over thin lips pursed in matched expressions of displeasure, not an inch difference in their heights, similar shades of dark brown hair worn long and pulled back at the nape of the neck with a leather thong. If Ellison was Lord Tennison’s son, then it was no wonder that he took such an immediate disliking to Merlin and protested his claim so vehemently; if Merlin’s claim were to be considered invalid, Ellison would be clear to take the throne.

“Tennison’s wife Imogen was your father’s cousin,” Penbrook explained. “Ellison joined the council upon inheriting her estate. She was a lovely girl, really. She and Balinor got on splendidly in their youth. But Tennison was always jealous of Balinor. He is not so powerful himself, not half the warlock your father was no matter how much training he received. And he could never comprehend how Balinor could give up the opportunity to become king and seize all the power and prestige that comes with it.”

“Power isn’t everything,” Merlin said with a furrowed brow.

“I am afraid that he would not agree with you on that point,” Penbrook sighed with a rather disappointed look at the disgruntled Lord. But she turned back to Merlin with a soft smile. “But I do.” She held out her hand to Merlin and he took it, bending to press a kiss to her knuckles in a way that made her smile fondly at him. “You remind me a great deal of your father, my boy.”

Coming from Lady Penbrook, the term did not carry the weight of derision that it had from Ellison. Instead it seemed affectionate, more like when Gaius said it, and the address warmed Merlin almost as much as did the comparison to his father. “I helped mind him after his mother died,” she told him. “Later, I was one of his tutors. He was a bright child, opinionated, and never afraid to stand his ground. You strike me as much the same.”

“Thank you, my Lady,” he said sincerely. “You have no idea how much it gladdens me to hear you say that.”

“Welcome home, my Prince.” With a twinkle in her eye, she clasped Merlin’s shoulder, her grip surprisingly strong for someone of such an advanced age. Merlin stared after her as she walked away, too stunned to have responded had the woman waited for him to do so. My Prince. Penbrook had already made up her mind on the matter, it seemed, and she believed Merlin to be the true heir. But it was more personal than that. My Prince, she had said, with that same warm, genuine tone she had used when speaking of his father. Welcome home, my Prince. Merlin was still boggling over it when Gerund appeared at his side once more, apparently having overheard most of the conversation.

“That is good,” he said bracingly. “Lady Penbrook is an influential woman. Her approval will go far in getting the rest of the council members on your side.” Merlin rounded on him then, snapped out of his daze, remembering abruptly that he was angry.

“You did _not_ tell me that I would have to fight for this!” he hissed, jabbing a finger into Gerund’s chest as hard as he could without making it obvious enough for the council members still in the chambers to see. “You didn’t say anything about there being someone else with a legitimate claim. You told me I was the only one.”

“Er, no, I said that you were the only one with a _direct_ claim,” Gerund corrected hastily, backtracking a bit at Merlin’s mutinous expression. “Lord Ellison is your second cousin, and he shares royal blood with you through his mother’s side. But he is three generations removed from the true royal line, while you are a direct descendant. The throne should fall to you as a true Dragonlord of the house of Ambrosius and Balinor’s only son.”

Merlin would have responded angrily, but a spike of pain through his temple dissuaded him from arguing as much as he wanted to. Headaches the likes of which this one promised to be were always a trial and this was not the first time he had earned himself one; he blamed his life for that. He was inordinately grateful when Mordred placed a hand on Gerund’s arm to get his attention.

“Perhaps we ought to retire for the night,” he suggested firmly enough that it was clear that it really wasn’t a suggestion at all. “We could all use some rest and some time to clear our heads after a day like this.”

“Of course,” Gerund sighed, the righteousness draining out of him as soon as he really looked at Merlin. “You must be exhausted.”

“Just a bit, yeah,” he said. It was an understatement; with the adrenaline of the confrontation fading from his bloodstream, he was finding it more and more difficult to keep his eyes in focus. He rubbed at them, hoping that maybe that would help, but it didn’t really. “It’s been a long day.”

“That it has,” Mordred agreed.

“Right, right. Come, this way. I’ll show you to your chambers,” Gerund said with a gesture. Merlin followed behind him blearily as he led the way through a number of long and winding corridors to what was presumably the west wing of the castle where he had told the stable boy to take their bags. The wall sconces had been lit all along the way and the flames flickered hypnotically as Merlin passed; it was most certainly not helping to keep him awake. In fact, it seemed determined to lull him to sleep before he even got to his chambers. Gerund stopped eventually and waved Mordred into a set of rooms before ushering Merlin to his own across the hall. He stopped Merlin before he could enter, though, pulling him back and taking pains to look him directly in the eye.

“You did well, Merlin,” he said. “You held your own against great odds and you handled yourself like a true statesman. Your father would be proud.”

“Thank you, Gerund,” Merlin whispered. As he had lain dying in Merlin’s arms, Balinor had said that he knew that Merlin would make him proud. It was something that Merlin strove to do every day of his life, and something that he feared all too often that he had failed to do. Hearing that he had succeeded from someone who had known his father well…it was almost enough to make him believe it.

“Good night, Merlin,” Gerund said.

“Good night.” Gerund gave him another of those respectful nods that he was really going to need to stop being embarrassed by if he expected to stay here for any length of time and then left him to enter his new chambers alone.

Merlin slumped back against the heavy door as soon as it had shut behind him, going near to boneless as his exhaustion from the last two days crashed down on him all at once. He had to lock his knees to keep himself from sliding all the way down to the floor. He let his head fall back, wincing at the force with which it collided with the unforgiving wood. He stayed in that position for a while, safe in the fact that no one was there to see his moment of weakness, just relishing the chance to finally drop his guard after holding so tightly to his control for so long.

Eventually he pushed himself upright, but he swayed alarmingly on his feet and had to steady himself with a hand on the wall again. A wave of lightheadedness swept over him and he remembered that, not only had he gotten no sleep at all the night before, but he hadn’t had anything to eat since high noon and it was well into the evening by now. The feeling passed quickly enough and he looked around the chambers he had been given.

Merlin wondered if these would be his chambers officially or if he would be moved into even more opulent quarters when he was crowned. If he was crowned; there was a chance, and he wasn’t entirely sure how good a chance it was, that the council would rule in Lord Ellison’s favor. By the succession laws with which Merlin was familiar, he would never have been allowed to take the throne, his status as a bastard precluding him from holding any sort of power, but there were other factors in play here. It seemed that his being born out of wedlock was less of a problem here than it would have been anywhere else, as his Dragonlord abilities confirmed his parentage in a way nothing else could. But would that be enough to convince the council that he could be trusted with such authority?

What would happen to him, he wondered, if they chose to give the throne to Ellison instead of him? Gerund had said that he would always be welcome in Carthis, but if he was not needed, if there was someone else who could preserve peace, then there would be no reason for him to stay here. And he didn’t yet know if going back to Camelot was even an option. Arthur may have apologized for nearly throttling him, but that didn’t mean that he would welcome Merlin back with open arms. There was far too much hurt and broken trust between them for that, and he had never said anything about changing his stance on magic in his kingdom. Merlin forced these thoughts from his mind; tomorrow was for tomorrow. Tonight, he had a warm bed and a reprieve before the challenges that would come, and that was what he was going to focus on.

Just as the guest chambers in Camelot were done up all in Pendragon red, so those in Carthis were decorated in what Merlin assumed was Ambrosius blue. The curtains which had been pulled shut over the windows matched the quilt folded up on the end of magnificent four poster bed, which looked so thick and warm that Merlin wanted to sink into it and never come out again.

But before he could do that, someone had set out a tub of water before the fireplace, so large that it was hardly able to fit between the privacy screen on one side of the room and the ornately carved writing desk on the other. The water was still steaming despite the length of time that must have passed since it had been brought up, filling the room with the faint scent of lavender oils. As much as Merlin yearned for sleep, the siren call of a hot bath was too strong for him to resist after three days spent on horseback and sleeping on the ground. Besides, if he was going to be contending for the crown in the morning, then he would rather be clean and presentable.

Merlin wearily stripped out of his dirty clothes and folded them neatly before putting them in the laundry basket, a courtesy that Arthur had never shown him—he wasn’t actually sure that Arthur even knew where the laundry basket was, as his tendency was just to throw his dirty clothes on the floor, or at Merlin’s head, depending on his mood. He lowered himself into the bath with a groan, the heat sinking all the way down into his bones and leeching the soreness from his tired muscles. He had not had the luxury of a real bath very many times in his life. Gaius had not been able to afford a bathtub, even with Merlin’s salary added to his own, and in Ealdor Merlin hadn’t even had a bed to sleep in, much less a tub large enough to bathe in.

He stayed in the bath long enough that the water should have gone cold, just soaking and savoring the extravagance of it, but someone must have spelled it to maintain that temperature. Knowing that if he stayed in the bath much longer, he would inevitably fall asleep there and wake up in the morning all wrinkly and waterlogged and with a horrible crick in his neck, he scrubbed his hair through with soap and dunked his head under the water to wash it out again. There was a pile of thick, soft cloths left on the floor beside the tub, one of which Merlin used to towel himself dry and another to wrap around his waist. There was a razor and a mirror on the vanity, but Merlin deemed that unimportant enough that it could wait until morning. He pulled his sleep clothes from the saddle bags that had been left at the foot of the bed and pulled them on.

Merlin almost opened the door to call for a servant to empty the tub, as Arthur would have done, but he stopped. He turned back and stared at the tub for a moment, a sort of panicky excitement rising up in his chest. Before he could let years and years of ingrained caution get the better of him, Merlin waved his hand and said, “Àþwìne meresteall.” The water vanished and left the tub as dry as if it had never been there at all. Merlin let out a bark of laughter, the knowledge that, even if someone had seen him, it wouldn’t have mattered because it was _okay_ making him dizzy with the kind of euphoria he had only ever experienced in flight when he was high above the ground on Kilgharrah’s back, watching the earth disappear beneath him.

 _Freedom_ , he thought. _This is what freedom feels like._ The heady rush made him want to run and shout, but he was far too tired for that at the moment.

The bed called out to him, tempting him away from performing more magic just for the sheer pleasure of knowing that he was allowed to. Unable to resist the temptation any longer, he climbed into the bed. It was by far more luxurious than anything he had ever slept in before; he had never given into the lure of taking a nap in Arthur’s bed for fear of being caught out and subsequently thrown in the stocks for it. The mattress was ridiculously soft, the blankets warm and thick, and there were more pillows than he knew what to do with. His last thought before he succumbed to sleep was that this bed alone might be enough to make this whole nightmare worth it.


	9. Chapter Eight

The ride back to Camelot was nowhere near as companionable as the ride out. They had been a relatively cheerful bunch then, as cheerful as those riding out to slay a dragon that was terrorizing innocent villagers could reasonably be, talking and joking and laughing together as they always did on such journeys. The Knights of the Round Table were brothers, a family, as they had been since they were first established in an abandoned castle when Arthur had broken generations of tradition by knighting a band of low born men whom he knew to be worthy of the honor.

But it had been Merlin who had sat at Arthur’s right hand at the round table. Even when Arthur had exchanged the long council table in Camelot for a round one and Merlin had been relegated to standing behind him as his servant once more, none of them had forgotten that it was he who had been awarded the place of honor meant for the king’s most trusted advisor. And now the Knights of the Round Table were returning home without him.

The first day of the journey was passed mostly in somber silence, each man too caught up in his own thoughts to voice any of them out loud. Arthur was thankful for the lack of idle chatter at first, but by the time twilight had fallen and they had bedded down for the night, he would have given anything for someone to distract him. There was just too much for him to think about, to brood on, and he was slowly sinking deeper and deeper into one of his black moods. Usually when he got like this, it was Merlin who would brave the dangers of talking him out of it again, often dragging him kicking and screaming back into a reluctant sort of optimism with words of wisdom and confidence.

Knowing all that, and knowing that it wouldn’t happen this time around, only made everything ten times worse. He could only wait until they reached Camelot where he could wrap his arms around his Guinevere, bury his face in her hair, and hope that she would know him better than he did himself; she had a way of talking him through his own thoughts, of leading him by the hand to the decision which he hadn’t realized that he had already made, which he had come to rely on over the years. It was one of the many reasons that he had fallen in love with her.

Anywhere would be better than here, really, Arthur thought. Gwaine was stony and mute, glowering at Arthur whenever he happened to look in his direction. It wasn’t that Arthur didn’t think that he deserved it, because he did, but it certainly made things a tad uncomfortable, especially when Percival kept trying to get Gwaine’s attention to ask why he was looking at Arthur as if he was the devil incarnate. Leon was distracted and pensive in a way he rarely ever was, his usual alertness having given way to a state of deep thought which apparently took all of his concentration. Arthur wasn’t sure that he could remember the last time the man had blinked. It was Elyan, though, who finally broached the taboo subject around noon on the second day of travelling when they had stopped to rest and water the horses.

“So you’re really just going to let him go like that?” he asked. He immediately had the attention of everyone in the small clearing. No one needed any clarification as to whom he was referring to.

“He is perfectly within his rights to go wherever he pleases,” Arthur said stiffly, turning to check his horse over for imagined injuries so that he didn’t have to turn around and face his men, the rest of whom weren’t even trying to pretend that they weren’t listening.

“But he’s your manservant—”

“And he had every right to leave his position. He was my servant, not my slave,” Arthur barked. “And as a member of the royal household of a foreign kingdom with whom we are not on the best of terms, to detain him could be seen as an act of war.” Truth be told, it had not even occurred to him to try to stop Merlin from going to Carthis. And, in light of all that he knew now, he doubted he would have been able to keep him anywhere he did not want to be anyway. Elyan didn’t respond immediately.

“And if he wasn’t?” he asked.

“If he wasn’t what?” Arthur repeated, being deliberately obtuse because he thought he knew where this line of questioning was going and he did not want it to go there.

“If he wasn’t a member of a royal household,” Elyan clarified. “If Carthis had nothing to do with any of this, if you simply knew everything that you do now. Would he still have been free to leave? Or is his newfound royal heritage the only reason he isn’t in chains?”

Arthur was taken aback by the bluntness of the inquiry, so bold that it almost sounded like an accusation. Elyan had always been one of the more reticent of his knights, usually content to leave the confrontations to Gwaine and his more belligerent personality. That he would be the one to take a stand in Merlin’s favor threw Arthur off balance. And of course, it was a question to which he did not have an answer. It had been plaguing him all day, the thought of what he might have done had the circumstances been only slightly different. He wasn’t at all sure that would not have been the case, that he wouldn’t have clapped Merlin in irons. Or worse, considering the way he had reacted.

“He is no threat to the kingdom,” he said, sidestepping the question. He had run out of injuries to examine his horse for and so settled for adjusting the straps on his pack even though they were perfectly aligned.

“You’re sure of that?” Leon asked, sounding anxious rather than dubious, as if he wanted to believe that but needed the permission of his sovereign, the reassurance that he was allowed to think that way about a sorcerer.

“He had damn well better be, after everything Merlin’s done for him,” Gwaine said under his breath, more to himself than to the group at large, but it sent a spike of jealousy through Arthur strong enough to make him stop feigning disinterest and turn around to face him.

“And what would you know of what he’s done, Sir Gwaine?” Arthur demanded, knowing that provoking the volatile knight was a bad idea but too keyed up to care at the moment; he was so angry, so agitated, that he would gladly take any outlet for his frustration, even one that was likely to get both of them injured in the process.

“I know enough,” Gwaine said through gritted teeth. His hands were clenching into fists at his sides like he wanted nothing more than to throw a punch at Arthur but was only just holding himself back because, despite what most people seemed to think, he did have at least a modicum of respect for Arthur’s position. Part of Arthur wanted him to let go of that control, to give him an excuse, something to fight. Gwaine barked out a humorless laugh. “More than enough to know that you never deserved Merlin’s loyalty.” That stung, especially because Arthur was becoming more and more inclined to believe it was true.

“I don’t need loyalty from liars and traitors,” he spat.

“Merlin is no traitor,” Gwaine said fiercely, stepping forward into Arthur’s space. “I may not know much of what he’s done over the years, but I know that much.”

“You don’t know anything,” Arthur shot back.

“I’m his friend,” Gwaine insisted. “And I know him.”

“I was his friend long before you were, Gwaine,” Arthur snarled, barely restraining himself from lashing out physically.

“Were you?” Gwaine asked, his eyes wide and accusatory. “Are you sure that Merlin knew that? When was the last time you _told_ him that, hm? That you were his _friend_? Because you damn well didn’t act like one. You treated him like _dirt_.”

“Gwaine, you know that’s not true,” Percival tried to interject, but Gwaine took no notice of him, all of the anger he had built up over the last two days finally boiling over.

“All those years of service, did they mean nothing to you at all? Merlin dedicated his _life_ to you, and you repaid him with a hand at his throat.”

Arthur reeled back at those words, feeling as though he had just taken a heavy blow to the stomach though Gwaine had never raised a hand against him. All of his own rage was doused in an icy wave of shame and horror. Gwaine was right. Arthur had no right to be upset that Merlin had not trusted him with this when he had never given Merlin a reason to believe that he could. Had he ever told Merlin how much he had meant to him, how much Arthur had come to rely on his advice and his support? Had he ever told Merlin that he was the only person that Arthur had felt he could truly trust, the only one whose loyalty to him had never been brought into question?

Merlin’s secrecy, his fear, was Arthur’s fault. Arthur’s intolerance, his single-minded hatred of magic and all those who practiced it, had convinced Merlin that he would never be able to look past it, that he shouldn’t even be given the chance. It was Arthur’s fault, and yet he had lashed out at Merlin for it, his fear and his prejudice and his anger overwhelming his sense, eclipsing the fact that he _did_ know Merlin, no matter how many secrets he had been keeping.

“Arthur, is…is that true?” Leon asked. The knights were all staring at him as if they had never seen him before, horrified and disbelieving. Arthur swallowed hard, unable to meet any of their eyes. His hands were shaking and he felt like he might be sick again.

“It’s…it’s not my proudest moment,” he croaked. “It was an overreaction. And I would take it back if I could.” Gwaine had backed off, still looking livid but the anger was mixed with confusion at Arthur’s sudden uncharacteristic retreat and a sort of grudging placation at his obvious remorse for his actions.

“Well you can’t,” he said, his words not as harsh as they could have been.

“I know that.” Arthur ran his fingers through his hair, suddenly feeling exhausted and weighed down. He just wanted to crawl into his big comfy bed with his lovely wife and sleep until all of this went away and he could wake up to find that it had been a dream, just a nightmare. “Come on. We need to go if we’re to reach the city by nightfall.”

He mounted his horse without looking at his knights. They hesitated uncomfortably, passing glances among themselves. He couldn’t tell what they were thinking, but then again, he wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to know. If their thoughts were anything like his own, then they would they not be in his favor. Eventually they all mounted their horses one by one and fell in line behind Arthur as he turned his steed in the direction of Camelot. This ride was even more uncomfortable than the previous day’s, the silence stretched taut over the things that had been said and the things that hadn’t been. Arthur kept his head down and his eyes on the ground.

By the time they reached the gates of the city, the light was beginning to fade from the sky, the sun setting in the west illuminating the turrets from behind and throwing long shadows across the courtyard. Gwen was waiting for them on the front steps of the castle, having been alerted by the guards as to their arrival. Her relieved smile faltered as they drew near enough for her to see their tense, unhappy expressions and to count their number. Her eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hand, looking devastated as she drew the wrong, though admittedly the most logical, conclusion as to what had happened.

“They’re alive, Guinevere,” Arthur reassured her as he swung himself out of the saddle. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

“Where are they?” she asked. “Where is Merlin? Why isn’t he with you? And Mordred?”

“They’re gone,” he said simply. He swept past her to the top of the stairs, leaving his horse and his things for one of the stable hands to deal with. He did not want to get into this conversation out in the open; he didn’t think he would be able to make it through with the last shreds of his dignity intact, not with the realizations he had come to over the course of the day. He heard Gwen’s murmured inquiry to her brother and the other knights, but they just shook their heads, knowing that it was not their place to tell her all that had happened.

Finally she was forced to admit defeat and follow Arthur into the castle, keeping pace with him until they reached their chambers. He leaned against the door as soon as he had closed it, propping his forehead against it and taking a moment to steel himself for what he had to say. He didn’t know how to say it. This would be even more difficult than telling the knights, because Gwen had been Merlin’s friend even before Arthur himself had, long before any of the others. It would hit her hard, surely, the knowledge that Merlin had been lying to her for so long.

“What happened, Arthur?” she asked, placing a small but firm hand on his arm and pulling him around to face her. Her brown eyes were bright and full of worry. He could get lost in those eyes, but the concern in them was just too much for him to bear. Arthur pulled her into his arms, holding her slight figure tight against his chest and burying his nose in her soft curls, inhaling the incongruous scents of the lavender oil from her bath and his polishing oil from when she got anxious and needed something to do with her hands. It was such a distinct smell, all Guinevere. It rushed over him in a wave, soothing him in a way nothing else could. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held him just as tightly, although the slight flutter of her hands at the small of his back belayed her growing anxiety.

“Arthur, what’s going on?” she asked again, disentangling herself gently and taking his face in her hands. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m scaring myself,” he admitted, spurred into complete honesty by the promise of unconditional love and acceptance. They had already been through so much together, he and Guinevere. She had loved him through all of that, and she would love him through this too. “I thought that I was better than my father, that I would never be like him, but I just…I was so…I-I couldn’t—”

“Arthur, stop it, please just—” Gwen said, the worry in her eyes edging on true fear now as he stumbled over his words in a way he never did. “Arthur, you need to slow down. Start from the beginning and tell me everything.” Arthur leaned down to press his forehead to hers, letting out a shaky breath and trying to hold himself together for just a few minutes more. He needed to tell her, she deserved to know, but he wasn’t sure he could make it through the events of the last few days without falling apart completely. “What happened with the dragon? Just start with that,” she prompted. He lifted his head and nodded.

“There was no dragon,” he said. Her brow furrowed in confusion.

“But those villagers,” she said. “They said that their town was—”

“They lied,” he cut across her. “There was no dragon at all. Well, there _was_ a dragon, but he didn’t have anything to do with it. Or rather, he had nothing to do with _them_ , but he still—” He stopped himself before he could go on rambling things that Gwen wouldn’t understand and forced himself back to the beginning. “They were sent to draw us out.”

“It was an ambush?” Gwen asked in alarm.

“No. It was nothing like that,” he said. “There was only one person waiting for us. And he said that he just wanted to speak to Merlin.”

“Merlin?” She looked just as confused as they all had been by the idea of someone going to all that trouble just to get in touch with Merlin of all people. Arthur nodded. “Who was he? What did he want with him? And why would he go to such extreme lengths? Faking a dragon attack, I mean, really.”

“This is where it gets a bit complicated,” Arthur sighed. “And completely unbelievable. Although, thinking back on it now, it’s not nearly as hard to believe as it was when I first heard it. But then, everything is clearer in hindsight.”

“Complicated how?” she pressed, looking as though she was getting a bit annoyed at how hard it was proving to be to drag this story out of him. He would just have to say it, there was nothing else for it.

“The man was a mage from the kingdom of Carthis. And he had tracked Merlin down in order to tell him that his father, the Dragonlord Balinor, had been their estranged prince.” Gwen’s delicately shaped eyebrows shot up as she stared at him.

“Merlin’s father was a prince?” she repeated blankly. “A prince of Carthis, you mean?”

“Exactly. And as such, Merlin’s father was not only a Dragonlord, but a sorcerer of royal descent. Merlin told me himself that he inherited all of these qualities from his father.”

“All of—” she started, but she stopped, drawing the connections herself. He watched her closely, seeing the wheels turn and the conclusions form behind her eyes. “He was…? You mean to say that…that Merlin is a sorcerer?” she asked, her tone hard to read. Arthur had to squeeze his eyes shut; just hearing the words said aloud brought about another rush of emotion, but it was all too tangled and disjointed for him to make sense of it.

“Yes,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. “He has been since long before he set foot in Camelot. And he has been a Dragonlord in his own right since Balinor was killed nearly nine years ago.” Gwen remained silent for a few moments, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, and Arthur did not move to interrupt. She needed time to process the revelation, as he had. As Arthur was still struggling to do, honestly. He just held her, encircling her small waist with his arms and relishing in the feel of her soft form against his own. She rested her hands on his chest, one hand over his heart so that she could feel its rhythm against her palm.

“So that’s where Merlin is, then? That is why he didn’t return with you? He’s gone to Carthis?” she asked eventually. Seeing his stunned expression—he had not expected her to make that connection so quickly—she smiled slightly and explained. “You told me a few weeks ago that their Queen had died without an heir and with no close kin to speak of. If Merlin has royal blood, and this mage made such an effort to seek him out now of all times, I can only assume that it was because he was the only remaining person with a blood claim to the throne.”

Arthur marveled for a brief moment at how far his wife had come since she had been crowned queen, how well she had come to understand the laws and the politics of a royal court. She was not only beautiful and kind, but quick witted and perceptive as well. She was a great queen, and he would be lost without her.

“Yes, he has,” Arthur said. He wanted to go on, wanted to tell the rest of the story, or maybe to rant and rave and let out all the conflicting feelings he had swirling around in the maelstrom that was his mind, but he couldn’t seem to get any more words out. But Gwen was looking at him in that sharp, discerning way of hers that meant she was analyzing his feelings more accurately than he ever could himself, so he just waited for her to speak, to explain him to himself.

“You said earlier that you were scaring yourself,” she said gently, which was not what he had expected her to say. “You mentioned something about your father.” He swallowed thickly through a sudden constriction in his throat, feeling the hot prickling behind his eyes that signaled the advent of tears.

“I thought that I was better than him,” he repeated. “I thought I was, but I’m not. I swore to myself years ago that I would never hurt someone that I cared about in anger, no matter what they had done. But then I was just so…so _angry_ , and…and hurt and I just…”

Gwen placed a hand on the side of his face, lifting his head so that he would look her in the eye again; he had not realized that he had dropped it in fear of what he might see in her gaze. But there was nothing but love and compassion and understanding and all the things he could not feel for himself at the moment. That was the only thing that gave him the strength to confess this. “I took him by the throat. I nearly strangled him, Gwen. I…I never thought I was capable of something like that. H-he didn’t even try to fight me. He would have just let me...he would have let me kill him, he…I nearly—”

His breath was growing harsh, the tears fighting for release. Gwen pulled him down and wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him to her fiercely. He buried his face in her shoulder and tried to stop trembling, but it was no good. All the stress of the last few days crashed down on him and he shook apart in his wife’s arms. She let him cry, holding him tighter when sobs wracked his body.

He didn’t know how long they stayed that way, but it had to have been a while. It was fully dark out by the time Arthur’s tears subsided and his sobs receded into sniffles that sounded pitiful even to his own ears. Gwen was murmuring nonsense into his ear and stroking the back of his head, running her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck in a way that never failed to soothe him. He pulled back and wiped at his wet face, but the leather of his gloves wasn’t a very absorbent material. Gwen produced a handkerchief from somewhere in her dress and handed it to him with a soft smile.

“It was perfectly understandable for you to be angry, Arthur,” she said.

“There is no excuse for what I did, Guinevere,” Arthur insisted. “It was reprehensible.”

“Yes,” she conceded with a sigh, “but everyone is allowed to make mistakes once in a while. It was not a good thing that you did, but the fact that you feel this way about it, that you know that it was wrong and you regret doing it, makes a great deal of difference.”

“I don’t even think that I’m angry at him anymore, not really,” Arthur admitted, only just realizing that fact himself. “I had a bit of a shouting match with Gwaine on the way back to Camelot, and he said some things that made me realize that Merlin had no reason to trust me with this. With the way I have always viewed magic as solely evil, and the way I told him so repeatedly, of course he would never think it safe to tell me. And with the way I reacted, I only proved him right.”

“He lived his whole life in a place that told him that what he is is a crime. I imagine that true trust would have been a difficult thing for him to come by,” Gwen pointed out. She hesitated then, biting her lip again before asking delicately, “So you aren’t bothered by the fact that he’s a sorcerer?”

“I spent a good long while thinking back over his time in Camelot,” Arthur said slowly, “and from what I can tell, from all the things I can think of that Merlin could possibly have had a hand in, he has done little but help us. His actions speak of nothing but loyalty and dedication. I simply cannot justify thinking of him as wicked and corrupt the way my father always taught me that all sorcerers would be.”

“Merlin is one of the kindest and most compassionate people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing,” Gwen said. “If he has magic, then I can’t picture him using it with anything but the best of intentions.”

“I know that, I just…took a while to come to that conclusion,” Arthur sighed. “And by then the damage was already done.”

“What else happened, Arthur?” she asked, stroking his cheek. “Surely, you didn’t leave it like that.”

Arthur unclasped his cloak and tossed it aside and Gwen helped him out of chainmail heavy enough to make sink him through the floor. Then Arthur took her by the hand and led her to the bed, feeling drained and exhausted. He leaned up against the headboard and Gwen draped her arm over his waist, her head fitting perfectly in the space under his chin. He explained the rest of the events in fits and starts, beginning with the way he had all but destroyed a poor defenseless tree and ending with her brother’s defense of Merlin and Gwaine’s righteous anger on his friend’s behalf. Gwen was rather taken aback by the conversation he had overhead between Merlin and the dragon, but not by the fact that Merlin saw it as his duty to protect him.

“He has always gone out of his way to keep you safe, Arthur,” she pointed out. “He drank poison for you just a few short months after he’d gotten here.”

“And he offered to do so again a few months later,” Arthur admitted. “And he was dead set on sacrificing himself in my place to heal the damage done to the Veil between the worlds.”

“Merlin has done more to protect you than any of your knights ever have. The fact that he was using magic doesn’t change that in the least. If anything, it makes his dedication to you even more admirable, that he would risk his life every day just by staying in this kingdom, breaking the law to keep you safe and sound.”

“I just wish that I knew why,” Arthur said. “He was saving my life long before he actually liked me. We could hardly stand each other when we met, and yet he pulled me out of the way of a dagger just days after I had him thrown in the dungeons and then tried to take his head off with a mace. The dragon said something about destiny, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. It was all very vague and cryptic.”

“Well, there is still someone else you could ask, you know,” Gwen said. Arthur frowned at her, confused. She raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think Merlin could have lived this long in Camelot if he didn’t have Gaius keeping him in line and covering his tracks?”

“Of course!” Arthur exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that before?”

“That’s what you have me for,” Gwen laughed, leaning up to kiss him. “To point out all the simple things that you’re too busy looking at the big picture to see for yourself.”

“I love you, Guinevere,” Arthur said softly. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” Her teasing smile melted into something easy and heartfelt.

“I love you too, Arthur,” she said. “Now get some sleep. Speaking with Gaius can wait until the morning.” With his Guinevere soft and warm in his arms and the weight of guilt and shame lifted a bit from his shoulders, Arthur thought that maybe, just maybe, things could still turn out alright. He could still fix this. Somehow.


	10. Chapter Nine

Merlin woke up slowly, scattered memories of the last two days filtering back into his consciousness in a tiny trickle. He opened his eyes before full wakefulness had returned to him and was thoroughly disoriented. The sight of blue hangings drawn back and tied to the posts of a four poster bed confused him for a second; Arthur’s hangings were red, he was pretty sure of that. And why was he in Arthur’s bed anyway? He was never allowed to—

It all came crashing back then and he nearly curled up under the sheets and went back to sleep, desperate for the forgetfulness that it promised. But the sun was already up, trying to force its way through the cracks in the not-Camelot-red-but-Carthis-blue curtains, and he had something that he was supposed to do today. He could only avoid it for so long and there was really no point in putting it off anyway.

Merlin pushed back the blankets, immediately longing for their luxurious warmth again as the cool air nipped at his exposed skin. He levered himself onto his feet and his stomach growled at him audibly. Oh yeah. It had actually been quite a while since he had last eaten. He wondered if someone would be kind enough to point him in the direction of the kitchens were he to ask. Or maybe he was supposed to stay here and send for a servant to bring him a tray instead. Was his status secure enough for him to do that sort of thing or was it still in question? If he ended up not being crowned king, would he go back to being a lowly peasant or would his paternity still grant him some level of nobility? It was far too early to be thinking such things. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and scratched his head.

He spotted the razor he had put off using the night before and raised his hand to his chin, feeling the scratch of three days’ worth of stubble. He shaved quickly, pleased with the fact that he actually had a mirror here as opposed to his rooms in Camelot where he had to shave by feel alone and hope he didn’t injure himself too badly in the process. Feeling slightly more human with a clean shaven face, he was finally willing to pull open the heavy blue curtains and let in the painfully bright early morning sunlight. It slapped him in the face and he had to squint for a moment until his vision adjusted to the drastic change.

The window gave him a good view of the castle courtyard below, already bustling with people. It was still pretty early, since Merlin was used to rising with the sun in order to fetch Arthur’s breakfast before he woke and complete whatever chores he had forgotten to do the night before. This was probably the latest he had slept in in a long while, which was sort of sad considering the only people he could see moving about looked to be servants on their way to begin their duties for the day. He stayed at the window for a few minutes, leaning against the window sill and just watching the townspeople go about their lives. This, at least, was no different than Camelot, with the exception of the occasional glimpse of magic that always had his heart racing.

He was pulled from his musings a few minutes later by the creak of the door behind him. He turned to see a young girl with a heavily laden tray in her hands pushing the door open with her hip. He hastened to help, having been in that situation before and knowing just how precarious a position it was. The girl let out a squeak and blushed, nearly dropping the tray in her surprise at seeing him there.

“My Lord!” she exclaimed. “Many apologies for my lateness, sire. I hope that I didn’t keep you waiting for too long. I brought you extra—”

“It’s quite alright, I assure you,” Merlin said quickly, cutting off the girl’s ramblings. “You’re not late at all. I’m just an early riser. I was up before half the kitchen staff, I’m sure.” He smiled at her and she flushed even more deeply, ducking her head. She hurried across the room to deposit her burden of food on the table and then turned back to give him a deep curtsey.

“Sir Gerund wished for me to tell you that he will be along to collect you in an hour or so,” she said. “He said that there are clothes in the wardrobe that are likely to fit you, if you would like to try them.”

“Oh,” Merlin said intelligently. “Thank you, er…what’s your name?” The girl looked up at him, more startled by the question than Merlin thought that she should be.

“My name, sire?” she repeated.

“Yes,” he said with a smile that he hoped made him look approachable and less intimidating than she seemed to find him. “Mine is Merlin. What’s yours?”

“F-Fran, my Lord,” she stammered, wide eyed.

“Well then, thank you, Fran. For breakfast and for passing on Gerund’s message to me,” he said. “Now I don’t want to keep you from your duties. I’m sure you have vastly more important things to be doing than catering to the likes of me.” It took Fran a moment to get over the shock of being spoken to so familiarly by someone she was meant to be serving, but then she dropped into another curtsey.

“Of course, sire,” she said. “Good day to you, my Lord.” Then she rushed out of the door, though she glanced back over her shoulder at him before she closed it.

His behavior seemed to have confused the poor girl, out of character as it must have been for someone as high born as he was supposed to be. But just because he was royalty now did not mean that Merlin was suddenly going to start acting like an arrogant prat. Servants did an awful lot of work and rarely got any sort of appreciation for it, Merlin knew that far better than any other nobleman ever would. He would see to it that they were not neglected, if only by thanking them for their efforts when he could.

The grumbling of his stomach alerted him to the fact that he now had a silver platter piled high with food all for him. Without a second of hesitation, Merlin sat down at the table and dug in. Growing up as he had, he had rarely had as much food as he probably should have had and as such had learned never to turn his nose up at food when it was offered. He knew that he would not be capable of finishing the entire platter, which contained more food than even Arthur could have eaten in one sitting, but that did not mean that he couldn’t try. He was two thirds of the way through the enormous helping of scrumptious breakfast foods before he was forced to stop, his stomach protesting the sudden over-usage. He didn’t want to send the remainder back to the kitchens, though. He decided to just leave it there. It would keep for a while, and hopefully he would be back in these chambers later. He would eat it then.

Merlin got up and crossed to the tall standing wardrobe on the other side of the room, remembering what the girl had said about there being clothes in there for him. They were likely to be much more suitable than anything that he had brought with him from Camelot, even if they didn’t quite fit him properly. The hinges on the wardrobe’s doors were a little rusty, squeaking when they moved, but they opened easily enough to reveal a good number of very high quality clothes. They were a bit dusty, but all were clearly of good fabrics, skillfully made and well maintained. He rifled through them, looking for something not made of velvet or brocade or any other ridiculously expensive material that would make him even more uncomfortable than he needed to be.

He found some plain tunics near the back, softer by far than any that he had ever owned but essentially the same, and pulled out a purple one that looked to be his size. He discarded his sleep shirt and pulled the tunic on, marveling at the smoothness of the material against his skin as opposed to the much scratchier homespun wool that he was used to. He moved on to the large bureau that stood beside the wardrobe, pulling open drawers in search of trousers. He tried on three pairs before he found some black ones that fit properly, the others having been the right length but a bit too large around the middle. He tied a belt from another drawer around his waist and pulled on his own boots, opting for comfort and familiarity in spite of the rat hole in the side.

Merlin went and stood before the mirror, back far enough that the reflection showed him from the knees up. He didn’t look all that different than he usually did, but the transformation was noticeable anyway. Maybe there was something about wearing high quality garments that made him straighten his stance, feeling the need to live up to the image portrayed by the clothes he had on, but he seemed to be holding himself differently even without anyone there to see him. The rich color of the tunic made the blue of his eyes stand out more brightly while the faded blues and reds he usually wore dulled them. The lack of his usual neckerchief did wonders for him as well even as it left him feeling bare and exposed. He had half a mind to put it on anyway, but decided against it. That thing was nearly as old as he was and it showed.

“Merlin?” He glanced behind himself in the mirror to see the reflection of Gerund leaning through the doorway with the door still half closed, peering around for him.

“Here,” he called, coming back into view around the corner of the connected rooms. Gerund smiled, looking him up and down appraisingly.

“You clean up nice,” he said. “The clothes fit you well enough. I knew you were about the same height as Balinor.”

“These are my father’s clothes?” Merlin asked in surprise, glancing down at them as if expecting them to suddenly look different. They didn’t, of course, but they felt different all the same.

“Yes,” Gerund said, coming all the way into the room. “No one ever got rid of them when he left. They’ve been here ever since. I thought that you might be able to get some use out of them.” He paused, looking around with a small smile on his face. “I haven’t been in here in nearly thirty years. It still looks just the same as it did back then.”

“These were his chambers?” Gerund nodded. Merlin stared around, trying to imagine the Balinor he had known so briefly sitting at the table and reading paperwork, standing at the window and watching the people pass through the courtyard, rifling through his clothes from the wardrobe and tossing them aside, reading a book before the fire, but he couldn’t quite manage it. There was no real sense of him in these rooms; it had been too long since he had lived here for anything to be left behind. Merlin felt the absence keenly. Gerund seemed to sense it too. He let out a long sigh.

“Come, Merlin. There is much to be done today,” he said. Merlin nodded but hesitated, having to fight down another urge to don his neckerchief, to have that one measly layer of defense against the strangeness of it all. But Gerund was waiting for him in the doorway and no article of clothing would make this day any easier to get through.

“Right,” he said, taking a deep breath. He nodded to himself a few times and managed to make himself cross the room. Gerund led the way down the corridor and Merlin followed him, falling in a step behind out of habit. Gerund slowed down and Merlin slowed down with him, maintaining the distance automatically. Gerund stopped and gave him a look that Merlin didn’t understand. He raised an eyebrow questioningly and Gerund rolled his eyes.

“You don’t need to walk behind me, Merlin,” he said. “I am not your superior. You can walk alongside me. If anything, I should be a step behind you, but seeing as I’m the one who knows where we’re going…”

“Oh! Sorry. I didn’t realize I was doing it,” Merlin said sheepishly. “Force of habit, I suppose. Eleven years of trailing along after Arthur, you know. Might take me a while to get used to stuff like that.”

Merlin made a conscious effort to stay in step with Gerund as he led them down corridor after corridor. Merlin tried to keep track of them, but he found himself getting stuck in his mental map of Camelot. _Down that corridor should be the armo—no, wait, that’s not this castle._ The walk seemed to be taking a very long time, or maybe Merlin was just anxious and impatient.

“So where is this going to happen?” he asked curiously.

“Where is what going to happen?”

“Calling the dragon.”

“In the courtyard, of course.”

“The courtyard?” Merlin asked in surprise.

“Where else would we do it?” Gerund asked, giving him a sideways glance. Merlin thought about it, but didn’t have an answer.

“I don’t know. I just wouldn’t have thought of doing it in such a public place. But then, I have essentially been living in hiding for all of my life,” he added with a shrug. “Whenever I wanted to speak to Kilgharrah, I had to sneak out of the city in the middle of the night and walk half an hour into the woods to find a clearing that was large enough for him to land in and far enough away that no one would spot him or happen across us.”

“Of course. Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about that here. The people will be overjoyed to see a dragon again after so long. Many of them have probably never seen one in person. It’s been a long time since a dragon has graced our courtyard,” Gerund said sadly.

“Still. I don’t think I have ever called the dragon in another person’s presence,” Merlin mused. Then he remembered. “Oh, wait. Yes, I have. My friend Lancelot saw me summon the dragon once. But then, we were running for our lives from the Dorocha at the time, so I didn’t have a whole lot of choice in the matter. And he already knew about my magic, so it wasn’t that big of a surprise for him, really.”

He was babbling, he knew, but the nerves were getting to him. Having people know about his abilities was one thing, but being expected to use his abilities in their presence was another thing entirely. For so long his life had depended on not being seen. Performing magic in front of an audience was probably one of the most terrifying things he could imagine. Or, in this case, summoning the dragon.

It was only when they reached the double doors leading out into the courtyard that Merlin realized that they were not, in fact, headed to the council chambers as he had assumed. Apparently they were going to do this demonstration right now. Already there were a number of people gathered around, mostly the same ones who had been in the meeting the previous night, with a sizable group of townspeople lingering around to see what all the fuss was about. The councilors were gathered at the base of the steps, talking amongst themselves while they waited for Merlin and Gerund to arrive. Lords Tennison and Ellison were both there, looking very sour indeed. It took all of Merlin’s strength to force himself to follow Gerund down the stairs, especially when all the people in the courtyard, councilors and townspeople alike, turned to watch them.

“Ah! Sir Gerund,” Lady Penbrook called cheerfully, raising a hand to them in greeting. The golden net around her bun glinted in the sunlight. Merlin wondered if it was real gold, or if it hadn’t somehow been spelled to look like it. “And Prince Merlin. I hope you have had a pleasant morning.”

“Quite lovely, Lady Penbrook,” Gerund responded.

“And a good morning to you as well,” Merlin said with a relieved smile, the old woman’s reassuring expression doing its job well. Just knowing that there was someone here who actually wanted him to succeed worked wonders on his anxiety. It set a nice counterpoint to Lord Tennison’s vicious glare, if nothing else.

“Now that you’re here, we can get started,” Lord Melbourne said shortly.

“So…just call Kilgharrah?” Merlin asked uncertainly. “Just bring him here?”

“Yes,” Melbourne said, already sounding impatient with him. Merlin had to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes, but he managed it. He stepped forward out of the cluster of men and women to stand alone, his heart rate picking up drastically. He glanced back over his shoulder in time to see Gerund’s encouraging nod. He turned back and lifted his head to the bright morning sky, trying to forget about all the people watching him, and reached down deep into that part of himself that felt primal and powerful, untamable in a way his magic was not. The hoarse roar forced its way from his throat as it always did, without any conscious thought and in a language which he only barely understood.

“ _O drakon, e male so ftengometta tesd’hup’anankes!_ ”

The silence that fell over the courtyard was absolute. Merlin was almost afraid to look at the faces of those around him, but when he did he saw that most bore expressions of awe rather than fright. Murmurs broke out among the servants and townsfolk, hushed and reverential. Merlin turned back to face the members of the council. Many of them, to his surprise, seemed similarly affected. None of them said anything and Merlin could not think of anything to do but wait for Kilgharrah to show up.

Thankfully, Merlin didn’t have to wait long. Kilgharrah must have already been in the nearby woods, probably anticipating a moment such as this; there was no way he could have gotten there so quickly if he hadn’t been. He wheeled overhead, blocking out the sun for a moment and throwing huge shadows across the flagstones. Gasps and cries of amazement rose around him as people pointed up, many of them too young to ever have seen a dragon outside of picture books and tapestries. Kilgharrah spread his wings wide and touched down in the large open space of the courtyard, landing quite gracefully for a creature of such an enormous size. He folded his wings neatly back along his sides and settled himself comfortably, craning his neck to take in his surroundings.

“It has been many years since I was last in this place,” he said in lieu of a greeting.

“Hello to you too, Kilgharrah,” Merlin called up to him, crossing his arms over his chest. The dragon chuckled low in his throat.

“Hello, young warlock. Or should I say, my Lord?” he asked wryly. The reminder did not send the same wave of panic and dread through him that it had up to this point. Maybe it was just being in the presence of someone who knew him well, someone whom he had known for many years, someone with whom he was comfortable. He was back on solid ground. This, talking to the dragon, he knew how to handle. Everything else would come after.

“Well, actually, I think that might be up to you at this point,” Merlin said. He stepped to the side and held out an arm to showcase the gaggle of robed men and women standing at his back. “While the main purpose of this summons was to prove my heritage before the council, I believe that a few of the council members may have some questions to ask of you, if you would be so kind as to provide answers for them.” The dragon leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing as he examined each in turn.

“Lady Penbrook,” he said, sounding mildly surprised to have found the elderly woman still alive; no doubt she had been old the last time Kilgharrah had seen her as well. “I am glad to see you well.”

“And I you, Kilgharrah,” the Lady responded with a small bow.

“And Lord Melbourne,” the dragon said with a nod. The councilor bowed but did not respond in any other way, which Merlin found a little rude but did not comment on. Kilgharrah greeted a few more people with whom Merlin was unfamiliar before his eyes fell on Lord Tennison and a slow draconian smile spread across his face, sharp and feral and a little threatening. “Ah,” he said. “Tennison, is it not? You were but a boy the last I saw you.”

“That is no longer the case,” Tennison said through gritted teeth. Merlin could see how much the reminder of his comparative youth rankled with him and was petty-mindedly glad for it; call it recompense for the disrespectful way in which his son had treated Merlin the day before. Let him see how _he_ liked to be looked down upon.

“So it would seem. But it would appear that you have a boy of your own now,” Kilgharrah said, his gaze falling on Lord Ellison, who was standing by his father’s side. “By the Lady Imogen, I would imagine?”

“Indeed, O Great One,” Ellison said in an overly deferential tone, sweeping into a low bow. “My name is Ellison.” The thinly hidden amusement on Kilgharrah’s face was obvious to Merlin and he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing, but he didn’t think that any of the others knew Kilgharrah well enough to see it. The dragon did not bother to respond to the ingratiating gesture, instead turning back to Merlin expectantly. Merlin addressed the councilors.

“If any of you have questions that you would like to ask of Kilgharrah, now would be the time to ask them,” he said, stepping back to give them the floor. For a moment it seemed as though no one was going to be brave enough to raise his voice, but finally Lady Penbrook broke away from the group to stand at Kilgharrah’s feet. She was laughably tiny in comparison, but she held herself with a grace and strength that Merlin envied, and she did not seem small.

“Will you confirm before these witnesses,” she said loudly enough that her voice carried around the entire courtyard, reaching the ears of council members and common folk alike, “that Merlin is indeed the eldest son of our late Crown Prince Balinor?”

“I will do so gladly,” Kilgharrah said. “There is no doubt that Merlin is his father’s son. If he were not, then he would not have been capable of calling forth the white dragon Aithusa from his egg.” Rustlings from the crowd followed this pronouncement; Merlin assumed that many of them had not known about Aithusa’s existence.

“And would you attest to his character?” Penbrook asked formally.

 “I would indeed. His strength and his compassion are unmatched,” the dragon answered. Merlin was a bit surprised; he was not entirely sure that he could remember ever having been complimented by the dragon before. And yet here Kilgharrah was singing his praises to the council without the slightest hint of sarcasm.

“Do you believe this man fit to rule?” Penbrook inquired, her voice heavy with the weight of import. Merlin wondered if maybe this was a ceremony or a ritual of some sort, a tradition maybe that all those ascending to the throne underwent. If a Dragonlord did not receive the dragons’ stamp of approval, what would happen then, he wondered idly.

“I do. Gladly would I follow Merlin to the ends of the earth, if he were to ask it of me.”

Ask, not command. The distinction was not lost on anyone. Lady Penbrook bowed to the dragon, her hairnet sparkling like drops of molten sunlight and then turned to do the same to Merlin, who flushed a bit but acknowledged the gesture with a respectful nod. The Lady smiled at him and returned to her place in the council. No one else spoke. Apparently, no more questions needed to be asked. They had heard all that they needed to hear.

There was a crowd of people surrounding them now, servants and townspeople pressing eagerly in to get as close as possible to the first dragon to set foot in their kingdom in nearly thirty years. They were whispering behind their hands, staring at him, Merlin knew, but he didn’t care. Let them look. This was who he was, a Dragonlord, and this was where he belonged. He experienced another of those dizzying rushes of freedom to be standing here, out in the open with a hundred eyes upon him and a dragon at his side. Kilgharrah turned away from the council, his part finished, and leaned down to be on a level with him.

“Thank you, Kilgharrah,” Merlin said quietly. “For all that you said.”

“I spoke nothing but the truth,” the dragon said. Merlin reached out to place a hand on Kilgharrah’s snout, feeling the surprisingly smooth texture of the scales beneath his fingers. Kilgharrah leaned into the touch, again reminding Merlin of a very large cat. The image made him smile.

“Go on, O Great One,” he said teasingly with a wave of his hand. “You have done all that you can for me here. Fly freely, my friend. You waited far too long for the chance.”

“And you were the one to give me that chance,” Kilgharrah reminded him. “Your mercy has not been forgotten.” Merlin smiled and patted his snout, glad in his whole heart for the choice that he had made that night. To have struck Kilgharrah down would have been the gravest mistake of his life.

“I know. Now go back to flying or hunting or whatever it is you do all day.” Kilgharrah laughed, warm puffs of air making Merlin’s hair flutter.

“I believe Balinor may have said that very same thing to me in his youth,” the dragon said. “Seeing you here, in this place, makes it clear. You truly are very much like your father.”

“So I’ve been told,” Merlin chuckled. “Go on, get out of here.”

“If you have need of me—”

“I will call for you,” Merlin promised. Kilgharrah nodded and raised himself up to his full and considerable height. All eyes were immediately on him, eager to see what the dragon would do. He looked down upon Merlin with a small smile on his reptilian face.

“Until we meet again, my King,” he said solemnly.

And then he bowed low, his scaly neck bent in a graceful arc. Merlin was stunned. Kilgharrah had only ever bowed before him once, on the night when Merlin had first asserted his newfound authority over him. He had been forced into submission then, cowed by the strength of Merlin’s words, but now he humbled himself before Merlin willingly. Nearly overwhelmed with gratitude, Merlin bowed back. Then Kilgharrah took to the sky and Merlin watched his form grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared from sight.


	11. Chapter Ten

It took Arthur a few long, bleary moments to remember all that had happened over the last few days when he woke up warm and content and wrapped up in his peacefully sleeping wife. It was very different from the way he had woken up the previous two mornings, having slept restlessly both nights on the hard ground. He didn’t want to move from the cocoon of serenity, to break the fragile peace of this moment. He didn’t want to have to face this strange new reality in which he found himself, where up was down and Merlin was magic and bad was good.

Eventually, though, he made the immensely difficult decision to carefully dislodge his sleeping wife and relocate her from his chest to the bed, smiling tenderly down at her as she snuggled deeper under the blankets at the loss of his warmth and hugged a pillow to her chest in his place, and get dressed. Merlin’s absence was painfully obvious as he had to search out his own clothes and dress himself—but no, he did not require assistance in order to get dressed, no matter that Merlin had always teased him about that. Having a second pair of hands just made everything go a lot faster. He was a king and he couldn’t afford to waste time with tying his own boot laces.

Before long, he found himself at the door to Gaius’ chambers, which were standing open to reveal the man himself arranging a number of potions and remedies in his medicine bag in preparation for his morning rounds, and wishing that he had thought to stop and get some breakfast for himself before coming here. But he couldn’t very well turn around now, not when he had already made it this far. If he turned back now, he would lose his nerve. And this was not something he could afford to back out on; he had to know. There was just too much information he was missing, too many blanks in the picture, and Gaius was the only person left in the kingdom that could fill them in for him.

“Why did you never inform my father that Balinor was of royal stock?” Arthur asked bluntly. Gaius started and nearly upset one of the bottles on his table. He hastened to right it before it spilled its contents all over the stacks of papers beside it, and then turned to face Arthur with eyes that were wide and stunned. Arthur supposed that he probably could have found a more subtle way of bringing up the subject that would have been less of a shock to the old man, but he had always been a big fan of using the direct approach in life.

“Sire?” Gaius said, his eyes flicking over Arthur’s shoulder to the corridor beyond. “I did not know that you had returned. I take it that your journey was a successful one?” Arthur did not answer his question, instead leaning against the door frame and crossing his arms over his chest, leveling the man who had more of a hand in raising him than his own father had with a flat stare that told him in no uncertain terms that Arthur was unimpressed with his attempt to change the subject.

“My father never knew that Balinor was of royal blood,” Arthur said, his tone making it clear that he would accept no other topic at the moment. Things would’ve been a lot more complicated if Uther had known. His father may have been unreasonable when it came to sorcery, but even magic would not have blinded him completely to Balinor’s rank; the politics of kings was too sensitive, the balance between kingdoms and across realms too important to maintain.

No, Uther had not known. But Gaius had known where to find Balinor in his exile. Gaius had known him before and likely known him well. Arthur leveled the man with a steely gaze. “But I have no doubt that you did. However, you did not see fit to remedy my father’s ignorance. Why was that exactly?”

Gaius looked decidedly shifty now, one hand clutching at the strap of his bag and the other steadying him on the edge of the table, his eyes returning periodically to the doorway at Arthur’s back. It only confirmed Arthur’s suspicions.

“Where is Merlin, sire?” Gaius asked.

“Gaius, I asked you a question,” Arthur reminded him pointedly. Gaius licked his lips, his grip on his bag tightening to the point that his knuckles went pale. “Why would you keep something like that a secret?”

“Because he asked me to,” Gaius finally said. “I knew Balinor from my travels. I met him when he was just a child. When he arrived in Camelot, he asked that I refrain from mentioning his heritage to anyone. I saw no reason not to comply with his request.”

“Why would he ask you to do that? Why would he want to keep people from finding out that he was royalty?” Arthur asked, genuinely confused. Unless it was for the purpose of keeping himself or someone else safe, Arthur would never have even thought of hiding who he was. Gaius sighed heavily, seeming to accept that he was not going to be able to get out of having this conversation, and lowered himself slowly onto his cluttered workbench. Arthur closed the door to the chamber behind him and pulled up a wooden chair from the other side of the room to sit in front of him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Balinor was ashamed of his own actions,” Gaius told him. “He did not want anyone to know of his rank because, if they did, then they would surely know of his shame.”

“And what actions were those?” Arthur pressed. “If Balinor was his father’s only son, then the throne should have fallen to him. But it was his eldest sister who took the throne, and his other sister after her.”

“The throne did fall to him,” Gaius said. “Or it would have. But King Renor passed away from an illness when Balinor was only eighteen years old. Imagine what your rule would have been like had you been forced to bear the crown at that age.” Arthur shuddered to think it; he had been arrogant back then, spoilt and intolerant. He had not yet learned how to listen when other people spoke, to take advice and criticism, or to learn from his mistakes so as not to make them again. His rule would most likely have been brief and unfortunate.

“Balinor did not believe that he was capable of ruling well at that time,” Gaius said. “But his sister Theanor was older than he was, more experienced in matters of the court, and already an accomplished stateswoman in her own right. She, he thought, would make a much better sovereign than he would. So he abdicated his throne and handed the crown over to her.”

“And he was truly  _that_  ashamed of that?” Arthur asked incredulously. “Ashamed enough to hide his true identity even from his allies? Ashamed enough that he would not return to his kingdom even after he was driven into exile and hunted down?”

“Succession in Carthis is different than it is here,” Gaius said with a shake of his head. “There are other factors in play.”

“You mean magic?” Arthur asked straightforwardly. Gaius shifted uncomfortably, once again looking at the door as if waiting for Merlin to make an appearance, or perhaps fearing that he would.

“What has brought about this sudden interest in Balinor and Carthis?” he inquired. “And where has Merlin got to?”

“All in due time, Gaius,” Arthur said. He knew he was being unnecessarily cruel in drawing this out, in making Gaius sweat like this, but there was a small part of him that was still stinging from the knowledge that the two people he had trusted most were the ones who had been lying to him about the greatest number of things. This was a petty way of getting his own back, he supposed, but it did make him feel just a bit better about the whole thing. Gaius pursed his lips in displeasure but did not protest more.

“Magic does come into it, but more important than that is the concept of the Dragonlord,” he told Arthur, whose brow furrowed in confusion.

“What does that have to do with it?”

“To understand how it affects succession, one must understand the ability itself and how it is inherited,” Gaius said, a sort of earnestness creeping into his manner that betrayed his own fascination with the subject. He got the same way when he spoke of his craft, of anatomy and medicine and herb lore and potions and other such things that bored Arthur to tears. Arthur settled in for a lengthy lecture.

“The abilities of a Dragonlord—namely, the capacity to summon a dragon to him, to force a dragon to obey his word, and to call forth a new dragon from its egg—are passed down to the eldest son upon the death of the father. Any subsequent children of that Dragonlord, whatever their gender, will inherit only a partial ability, called an affinity. To have an affinity means that one will be able to call for a dragon, but it is the dragon’s choice as to whether or not he wishes to obey the summons. A person with the affinity will not be able to bind a dragon to his or her will as a Dragonlord in full possession of his abilities can and nor will they be able to hatch a new dragon.

“Note that I say the eldest son, not the firstborn,” Gaius said. “The first male child a Dragonlord has will inherit the full ability no matter how many older sisters he may have. However, if a Dragonlord’s firstborn child is a daughter, as was the case with Balinor’s father King Renor, then this child would be known as a Dragonlady.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow skeptically; he had never heard of such a thing. Surely, if there were Dragonladies as well as Dragonlords, he would have heard tell of them at some point, but Gaius carried on without acknowledging his expression of dubiousness. “As the firstborn child of a Dragonlord, the full gift would be passed down to her as well. But, as a woman, she would not be able to exercise it. She would carry the ability, but it would be latent, inaccessible to her. She would then pass it down the line to  _her_  firstborn son.”

“So a Dragonlady’s eldest son would be a true Dragonlord as his grandfather had been, and as his uncle was as well?” Arthur asked.

“Exactly. But the ability would be…diluted, so to speak. The purity of the line would be minutely weakened by the time spent dormant in one who could not wield it, and so her son would begin a new house of lesser Dragonlords. All his descendants would then take his name rather than the ancestral one that his grandfather had taken.”

“What difference does the purity make?” Arthur asked. “If all Dragonlords can command dragons, then what makes one different from another?”

“The more pure the ability, the more powerful the command,” Gaius said. “The order from the stronger, purer Dragonlord will carry more weight than the order from a lesser Dragonlord. If a dragon receives conflicting orders from two different Dragonlords, then he will obey the one with the purer heritage and disregard the weaker.”

“What does any of this have to do with succession to the throne?” Arthur demanded impatiently; his head was starting to hurt from all these technical things and, interesting though it might be, it was not the information that he had come here to get.

“The kingdom of Carthis has been ruled by one line and one line only since it was first founded,” Gaius said. “It has been passed down from eldest son to eldest son from the very first of the Dragonlords, Ambrosius. All the other lesser houses of Dragonlords have stemmed from this ancestral line, branching off by means of Dragonladies, eldest daughters who then birthed sons of their own to pass on their latent abilities. All Dragonlords were considered nobility, their rank among the gentry corresponding with the purity of their bloodline and ability, but only those directly descended from Ambrosius himself are royalty.”

“And…Balinor was one such descendant?” Arthur asked, only barely stopping himself from saying  _Merlin_.

“Yes, he was,” Gaius confirmed. “And that is why it was such a scandal for him to give up his throne as he did. As the eldest son in a long line of eldest sons to rule that kingdom, his actions broke from generations and generations of tradition. Before then, the only time a Dragonlord of the house of Ambrosius was not on the throne was when he was a young child and an older sibling, or an aunt or uncle, had acted as regent until he was old enough to rule by himself. For Balinor to give up his right to the throne entirely is unprecedented in the entire history of the kingdom.”

“So, only those descended from the house of Ambrosius are allowed to rule,” Arthur said, reasonably confident in the validity of that statement. As complicated as the situation was, he thought he had most of it straight in his head. “And with Theanor, Eleanor, and Balinor all dead…” He trailed off deliberately and kept a close eye on Gaius’ expression, seeing the horror emerge at the dawning realization.

“Arthur,” Gaius breathed, looking stricken. “Why are you asking me about this?” Arthur smirked, thinking that he might as well just dive right in.

“Merlin was rather upset with the dragon for keeping this from him. Seemed to think that he deserved to know about it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Merlin shout like that.” He regretted the words as soon as they had left his mouth. Gaius’ face lost all its color and he looked worryingly faint, reaching up to clutch at his chest. “Gaius?” Arthur asked in alarm, really hoping that he hadn’t just given the old man a heart attack in his callousness.

“How do y—what—I-I don’t understand,” Gaius stammered out. Arthur sagged in relief; shocked as Gaius was, he did not at least seem like he was going to keel over and die from it. That would have been really awkward to explain to Guinevere. Arthur decided that now was probably a good time to put Gaius out of his misery.

“The villagers’ tale of the dragon attacks was a clever ruse designed to lure the last of the Dragonlords out into the open,” he said. “Sir Gerund, the Foremost Mage of Carthis, was waiting for us just over the border. He informed Merlin of his lineage and asked that he return with him to Carthis in order to lay claim to his throne and restore peace to the kingdom. Merlin really could have used some warning, you know.”

The news of his royal blood must have been as shocking to Merlin as the revelation of his magic had been to Arthur. Ruling a kingdom was a daunting task. To have it thrust upon him out of nowhere like that… At least Arthur had been raised for his throne, groomed for it since the day he was old enough to know what a king was. Arthur wondered how Merlin was holding up, if he had been crowned yet.

“Lay claim to…” Gaius was struggling to form words but he couldn’t seem to get passed the stage of gaping at Arthur. He mouthed soundlessly for a moment, half-formed expressions flitting over his face too quickly for Arthur to interpret them. He waited patiently for Gaius to get a hold of himself. “You…you are taking this all very well,” he finally said.

 _Not well enough_ , Arthur thought shamefacedly, but he did not tell Gaius what he had done; he didn’t think he would be able to bear the expression of dismay and disappointment, so much more effective than anger had ever been, which he was sure to get in return if he did. Gaius’ opinion had always mattered a great deal to him and he didn’t want to give him reason to lower it.

“Yes, well, I have had some time to come to terms with it,” he said instead. “All of it,” he added, to make clear to Gaius that no more secrets remained. Gaius nodded to himself as though he had expected it. He probably had; he knew Arthur to be quick on the uptake when it suited him, especially where sensitive matters which concern inter-kingdom relations were concerned.

“Merlin would never act against you, I assure you—” Gaius began intently, but Arthur raised a hand to stop him in his supplications.

“That’s not necessary, Gaius,” he said with a shake of his head. “I have reviewed the time Merlin has spent here and have no choice but to acknowledge that his actions show only the best of intentions. Merlin is not my enemy, no matter how long he has been lying to me.” Gaius stared at him some more, no less shocked by this response but now with a sort of awed pride coloring his features. He searched Arthur’s face for a long time, judging the sincerity of his words. Apparently he was satisfied with what he saw there, his panicky expression fading into immense relief. He gave Arthur a small smile.

“He has only ever used his magic in the effort of keeping you and this kingdom safe,” he said, one more token effort to make sure that Arthur understood entirely.

“I know that, Gaius. I don’t doubt it.”

And he truly didn’t. Years spent with Merlin standing at his side, facing down his enemies with a boldness and lack of fear that was baffling at the time but which made perfect sense now, always with a smile and a disconcerting amount of faith in Arthur’s abilities, assured him of that fact. Merlin may have lied to him, yes, but it was out of self-preservation, and no one could really blame him for that. The fact was that Arthur owed his life to Merlin a dozen times over, a hundred times, maybe more. He owed him his kingdom. He probably owed him even more that he just hadn’t realized yet. The more that he thought about it, the more convinced he became that Merlin was his friend and nothing, not even magic, could ever change that.

“Merlin wanted to tell you, you know,” Gaius said. “For years. It broke his heart to keep it from you. He wanted nothing more than to be completely honest with you, but the circumstances were never in his favor.”

“You advised him against telling me, didn’t you?” Arthur asked with a sad little half-smile. Gaius immediately looked guilty and moved to make excuses, but Arthur stopped him with a shake of his head. “I don’t blame you if you did. In fact, I would be more likely to thank you for it. I don’t know what I would have done if Merlin had told me at some other time under some other conditions. As it is, I did not respond in the most pleasant of ways,” he admitted, dropping his gaze to his hands.

“I regret my actions in those moments,” he said, “and, though I did apologize to Merlin for them before we parted ways, I only truly came to terms with all of this late last night. I wish that I had done so sooner, and that I had had the opportunity to thank Merlin for all that he’s done for me.” Silence reigned for a moment and Arthur looked up to see that Gaius had tears in his eyes. “What?” he asked.

“You have come so far, Arthur,” Gaius said, his voice a little choked as if he were speaking around a lump in his throat. “So far from the boy you were when Merlin first arrived here. I could not be prouder of the man you have become.” To his embarrassment, Arthur’s own eyes were growing a bit wet as well and he dropped his head again, surreptitiously wiping at them with the back of his hand.

“You know, I had a great deal of respect for your father,” Gaius said. “He always acted in what he believed to be the best interests of his kingdom. But his pride prevented him from admitting when he had made a mistake, and his fear grew into a hatred that blinded him to that which he did not wish to see. That you have been able to look past that, past all that you were taught growing up, and come to the decision that you have makes you a better man than he ever could have been.”

“Thank you, Gaius,” he whispered. “I used to want nothing more than to grow up to be just like him. He always seemed so strong, so sure of everything. I wanted to be that strong, that confident in everything I did. But now, knowing what I do, and after everything that happened with the Horn of Cathbhadh… Well, I can say honestly now that I am very glad to hear you say that.”

“You are a good man, Arthur,” Gaius said. “You have managed to overlook years of deeply ingrained prejudice because you were presented with evidence to the contrary of what you had been taught. That is something not many people would have been able to do. It shows remarkable strength of character and a depth of integrity that few possess. And these are the things that make you a great king, the things that Merlin saw in you long before anyone else did.” Arthur chuckled a bit at that.

“Yes, he always did seem irrationally confident in me,” he said.

“Yes, well, a strong belief in destiny does tend to make one rather self-assured,” Gaius pointed out with a light laugh of his own. Arthur looked up at him again, eyes wide.

“Destiny?” he asked eagerly. “So do you know what he was talking about then? Merlin and the dragon were spouting cryptic gibberish about destiny back and forth at each other and it didn’t make the least bit of sense to me.” Gaius raised an eyebrow.

“Did neither of them explain it to you?” he asked. Arthur felt a slight flush rise in his cheeks and grimaced sheepishly.

“Well, you see…they didn’t exactly know that I was listening…” he mumbled.

“Arthur!” Gaius exclaimed in reprimand.

“I know, it was wrong, but I wanted to talk to Merlin so I followed him out of camp in the middle of the night and found him shouting himself hoarse at the dragon I had supposedly killed nine years ago! How could I  _not_ be curious?” he demanded. Gaius tried to look reproachful, but Arthur could see the amusement trying to break its way through. “Anyway, from what they said, it sounded like Merlin considered it something like his sacred duty to protect me.”

“That’s because it is,” Gaius said matter-of-factly. “According to the ancient prophecies of the Druids, your and Merlin’s destinies are intertwined. You are the Once and Future King, destined to eventually unite the whole of Albion under your banner. And Merlin is destined to guide and protect you so that you may reach that goal.”

“All of Albion?” Arthur breathed out, feeling a little lightheaded himself at the prospect. “They expect me to rule over the entire land?”

“And to usher in a Golden Age of peace and prosperity for all peoples,” Gaius added serenely. Then he gave him a pointed look. “And I do mean  _all_ peoples.”

It was Arthur’s turn to gape like a fish now. It was taxing enough ruling over _one_  kingdom, much less all of them combined. The logistics alone were staggering, never mind the difficulties in actually bringing them all together under his rule and holding them there. It would be horribly impractical to attempt to rule over a kingdom of that size. And then there was the implication in Gaius’ words, the unsubtle hint that he would make it safe for people like Merlin, that he would legalize magic. It was such a radical prospect. Ruling over the entire land of Albion, over all peoples, secular and magical alike.

“How would that even be possible?” Arthur mused, his mind reeling at the mere thought. “For anyone, let alone me.”

“There is no doubt in my mind that if anyone were to achieve such a thing, it would be you,” Gaius said with a smile. “And I think that Merlin alone has faith enough for the rest of us.” Arthur let out a laugh, a bit on the hysterical side. It was an impossible task. But then again, if an entire population of Druids and a fifty foot dragon all claimed it to be true, then who was he to doubt it? Maybe he was capable of this, maybe he wasn’t. But he would never know if he didn’t try.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Gerund insisted that Merlin be fitted for armour. Merlin tried to kick up a fuss, but Gerund simply wasn’t having it. Apparently whether he became king or not, he would be considered nobility and therefore most likely dubbed a mage. At some point or other, he would be expected to fight, and so he would need armour of his own. He could conceivably have used his father’s if Balinor had not taken it with him when he left Carthis, and if there had not been advancements in armour since that time. The armour was magically reinforced with ever-improving protective enchantments, allowing it to be much thinner than any armour Merlin had ever seen in Camelot, lighter and more closely fitted, less cumbersome and restrictive.

The only reason Merlin put up with being measured and examined and used as a dress-up doll for such a length of time was because he had absolutely nothing else to do in order to occupy his mind at the moment. After the demonstration of his Dragonlord abilities earlier that morning, the councilors had sequestered themselves in the council chambers and barred the door behind them, placing numerous spells on the room to ensure that no one could overhear what was being said inside. He had no idea how long it would be before they emerged to announce their decision, the ruling that would either put him on the throne or cast him aside.

So even though Merlin would be far more comfortable never having to don armour, he stood still and allowed for his measurements to be taken anyway. Well, as still as he could be when he was so full of restless energy. Several times he nearly elbowed the poor blacksmith in the eye because he was fidgeting so much. He was finally chivied irritably out of the door with instructions to pick up his armour in a few hours, and to keep it in good shape so he didn’t have to come back.

This left Merlin at a loss. He could go back to his rooms, he guessed, but what would he do there? What did Arthur do all day when he wasn’t busy with kingly duties? He trained with his knights, usually, but that wasn’t really something that Merlin could do. Or maybe it was, he thought as something that Gerund had said on their way to Carthis came into his mind. Something similar to that, at least.

A castle guard kindly gave him directions to where he might be able to find the High Priest, in his study up in a tall tower in the east wing. He reached the place without much trouble—no one stopped him, at least, so he assumed that either anyone was allowed to be there or he had enough authority to get away with going anywhere that he wished—and found the door open. It was a large study, which reminded him painfully of Gaius’ workrooms back in Camelot, with a number of heavy wooden tables covered in teetering stacks of books and papers, and a number of strange instruments that looked to be of science and magic alike, some of which were moving of their own accord and emitting small puffs of colored smoke every few seconds.

Merlin hovered in the doorway for a moment, mouth gaping open as he watched one such contraption spin around under its own power with a high pitched whizzing noise, before a man descended into view down a small set of steps from a backroom and drew up short at the sight of Merlin standing there.

“Oh. And who might you be?” he asked in confusion. He was tall and thin, but not overly so, probably somewhere in his middle or late sixties but still in good health. He had salt and pepper hair that fell in waves to brush against his shoulders and sharp dark eyes that examined Merlin from head to toe. Around his shoulders was a blue cape identical to the one Gerund often wore, as opposed to the similarly colored robes donned by the council members, except for the much larger and more elaborate royal sigil stitched into the right side of the chest.

“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Merlin stammered, feeling like a small child for some reason under the man’s gaze instead of the grown man that he was. “If you’re busy, I can come back later.”

“I don’t have anything that needs to be done immediately,” the man said, laying the book that he had in his hand on a nearby table and still watching Merlin with just the slight air of caution owed to any unknown person who should turn up unannounced. “Do you have something that you need to ask of me, stranger?”

“Oh, right, sorry,” Merlin said hastily, feeling a blush of embarrassment creep up on his cheeks. “My name is Merlin. Er, Merlin Ambrosius, I guess,” he tacked on as a bit of an afterthought. He had a surname now, one that would actually mean something to people, and he should probably remember to use it.

“You guess?” the man asked in mild amusement, raising an eyebrow at him. Merlin flushed deeper, feeling very silly indeed.

“Well, it’s, er…a bit of a new development,” he muttered. He cleared his throat and stood up straighter, making a conscious effort to look less awkward than he felt. “You are the High Priest of Carthis, are you not?” he asked.

“I am,” the man confirmed. “My name is Kane. Did you have something that you wished to discuss with me, Merlin Ambrosius?” Merlin hesitated only a moment more before entering the room more fully, not entirely sure what he wanted to ask but eager to do so nonetheless. This was a man so full of knowledge and power, the most learned man in the entire kingdom in the esoteric arts, and Merlin wanted to know everything that he did. He wanted to learn, to study, to become half as capable as the world seemed to expect him to be.

“I just wanted to…” he started, but he stopped and tried again. “Well, I’m afraid that I have had very little training as far as magic goes. And I would very much like to have more.” Kane watched him for a moment, long enough to make Merlin want to fidget, but he suppressed the urge.

“I trained your father, you know,” Kane said abruptly.

“My father?” Merlin repeated, stunned.

“You are Balinor’s boy, are you not, Merlin Ambrosius?” Kane asked. “Word travels fast about such things as this. A true Dragonlord has returned to Carthis at last. Where have you been hiding all this time?”

“In Camelot,” Merlin answered blankly, still too dazed by the revelation to be anything but honest. This was the man who had taught his father, just as Merlin had hoped he would train him. He was having trouble processing that for some reason.

“Camelot? Well, then it’s no wonder you have no training,” Kane exclaimed. “What on earth possessed you to go there of all places?”

“I travelled there for the same reason that I sought you,” Merlin said. “In the hopes of learning more about my gifts. What little training I do have is thanks to Gaius.”

“Gaius, of course,” Kane laughed, looking delighted. “I studied with the man myself for a few months when we were both much younger men. He was a spectacular healer, and a genius with a potions set. How goes it for him?”

“Well, as far as I know,” Merlin said, but a sliver of doubt plagued him; Arthur had to have reached Camelot by now. He didn’t think that Arthur would do anything to Gaius, even if he had been aiding and abetting a known sorcerer, but that did little to assuage his worry for his guardian. If anything happened to Gaius because of him, he would never be able to live with himself.

“If Gaius had a hand in your training, even in such a place as Camelot, then you surely have a solid foundation,” Kane told him. “Come. I have nothing pressing to attend to, if you wish to begin now.”

“Really?” Merlin asked breathlessly, hardly daring to believe it. Kane smiled at him, the wrinkles around his eyes showing that it was something that he did frequently. He put a hand on Merlin’s shoulder.

“There is much to discuss, my boy,” he said. He steered Merlin into a seat at one of the many tables and placed a book in front of him. “Now, to start with the basics—”

And that was where Mordred found the two of them when he appeared in the doorway several hours later, still in the exact same place but now deep in discussion about the storage properties of different crystals and the possible uses that could be developed for them, books and auxiliary papers long since discarded as they had progressed quickly past the fundamentals; Merlin’s innate understanding of magic, as well as the years of experience that he had with experimentation and trial and error meant that he hardly needed a concept explained once before he understood it well. The lack of structured learning that he had meant only that he lacked the boundaries in his thinking, did not have any notion of _impossible_. With enough ingenuity, and his own near-limitless reserves of magic, he was sure that anything was possible.

“But think about it,” Merlin was saying fervently. “Transportation spells always use a ridiculous amount of power. If that magical energy could be stored ahead of time in a crystal of some sort then you could come out the other side of the transport without being wiped out and exhausted. Think of how useful that would be in a battle, not having to leave one of your strongest fighters out of the fight because he had drained his magic in transport.”

“You would need a very resilient crystal to support the transfer of that much energy without breaking apart,” Kane argued, his brow furrowed.

“Maybe a double terminated quartz in conjunction with a dendritic agate? Or maybe a fluorite. You said that those handle large amounts of energy without side effects,” Merlin suggested with a quick glance at the reference chart of crystals and their associations that he had been studying earlier and which had sparked the thought in the first place.

“Would the addition of runes be of any help?” Mordred inserted. The two looked up in surprise; they had been too engaged in their conversation to hear the young knight come in. “Something to strengthen and stabilize the crystal?”

“It might just be possible,” Kane mused, reaching for a blank piece of parchment and beginning to sketch roughly in charcoal.

“Do you really think so?” Merlin asked eagerly. He had always wanted to learn a transportation spell, to be able to disappear from one spot and reappear almost instantly many leagues away, but such spells were said to be draining, even for the very powerful. If this idea came to fruition, then it could change the face of magical transportation entirely.

“It just might. It will need some work, of course it will, but this is a brilliant idea. You’re a bright lad, Merlin, that’s for sure,” Kane said without looking up. “You’ve got a head for this. I might make a scholar out of you yet.”

“Gaius will be delighted,” Merlin said, pretty thrilled at the prospect himself. He would have said more, would have asked Kane to take him on as a true apprentice or something, but Mordred stepped forward.

“Sir Gerund sent me to fetch you, Merlin,” he said apologetically. “He said that your armour is completed and ready to be picked up.” Merlin deflated with a sigh, not wanting to leave this haven of inspiration and magical knowledge. For a short time he had been able to forget about everything outside of that room, about the council deciding his fate, about Arthur angry and betrayed in Camelot, about all of it.

“Go on, Merlin. I’ll continue working on this. The Lower Priests will be intrigued by the prospect as well,” Kane told him. Merlin got up and crossed to the door where Mordred was waiting for him. “Oh, and Merlin.” He turned back. “You are welcome to stop by anytime. I would be more than glad to have you, sire.”

“I will,” Merlin promised with a smile. He would be back every day, if he could manage it. Hell, he would rather just stay here. But sadly, there were other things that demanded his attention. His was not the life of a scholar, no matter how much he sometimes wished that it could be. He nodded to Kane and followed Mordred out into the corridor. They walked in silence for a ways, Merlin’s good mood edging lower and lower with every step back into reality that he took. Needing to distract himself again, he glanced over at Mordred and saw that he had replaced his Pendragon-red cloak with a blue one.

“So what have you been doing all day, Mordred?” he asked, realizing that he had not seen the young man since the day before. He had not been present at the demonstration that morning, from what he had been able to tell.

“I joined the training of the secular knights in the morning,” Mordred told him. “It is not much different than the regime in Camelot. The same forms, the same stances. But then I was invited to join the mages’ training session.”

“How did they know you had magic? Did you tell them?” Merlin asked. He thought that maybe he ought to feel jealous of Mordred’s experience, but he had been perfectly content to be surrounded by books and discussing the properties of crystals, rather than learning how to do battle with his gifts. He had never been much of fighter, not when there was any other option to be had.

“There were a couple of druids among their number. They recognized me as one of their own,” Mordred explained. Not that that really explained anything, but Merlin had long since given up on trying to figure out the peculiarities of that particular group of people. “They said that they would be honored to have you join them tomorrow.”

“Did they? I don’t know…” Merlin said nervously, reaching up to adjust his neckerchief only to remember belatedly that he had not worn it. He stuffed his hand in the pocket of his trousers instead, finding the sigil ring there. “I have never really fought openly with magic. I doubt that I would do well against those who have.”

“It’s training, Merlin, not a duel to the death,” Mordred chuckled. “They mean to teach you, not test you.” Still. Merlin wasn’t sure that he wanted to be taught such things. He had already brought about far too much death with his magic for his own peace of mind. Being trained in offensive magic, being made even more dangerous, was a scary prospect. He bit his lip and did not answer. Mordred seemed to catch on to his mood, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “I would like for you to be there, Merlin,” he said softly.

“Why is that?” Merlin asked curiously, caught by his reticent tone.

“I want you to share in that freedom with me,” Mordred said, coming to a stop and turning to face Merlin properly. His eyes were bright, a small, awed smile on his face. “To practice openly. To be who we are without fear of reprisal. It…I could never describe the feeling. But I want you to feel it too.”

Merlin recalled how he had felt that morning, standing before a crowd and speaking in the language of the dragons. And the night before, the giddiness of using a simple spell without having to worry about being caught and hanged for it. He wondered how it would feel to enter into a battle with confidence, with his hands held high as the only weapon he needed, to stand tall on the battlefield instead of crouched behind a tree. To be able to stand at Arthur’s side as his equal, as a warrior in his own right.

“Alright,” he sighed. “I’ll do it. I will join you tomorrow.” Mordred’s beaming smile lit up his face in a way that Merlin had never seen before.

“Come on,” he said. “If you are to train with us, then you will need your armour.” Merlin groaned in half-hearted protest but followed Mordred off toward the blacksmith’s hut anyway.

 

\--

 

Merlin dug his heels in and held his ground, refusing to budge an inch under the onslaught of magic hammering away at his defenses. The shield that he had conjured glittered brightly in the afternoon sunlight, sparking a brighter gold wherever his opponent’s spells connected, exploding across the surface of his magic with a sensation that left Merlin’s skin buzzing, but never cracking under the pressure. He had no idea how long he had been holding this shield—time got a little iffy when he was focusing so completely on something—but the attacks from the mage across the field from him were coming slower and slower as his energy flagged. Finally, after another minute or so, the man dropped his hands, panting, and signaled his defeat with a white cloth from his pocket. Merlin let his shield fall, letting out a sigh of relief but not feeling truly fatigued from the prolonged magic use, and drew his sleeve across his forehead.

“Bloody hell, man,” his opponent called, looking stuck between admiration and jealousy. “That was ten solid minutes and you didn’t even falter.” Merlin shrugged self-consciously, scratching the back of his head.

“I’ve always had more magic than I knew what to do with,” he said truthfully. It had been a serious problem when he was living in Ealdor, back before he had learned how to really control his magic. It had come bursting out of him at random times, leaping up to meet his needs before he even knew what they were. It had been extraordinarily dangerous, never knowing when his magic was going to flare up or to what end, always looking over his shoulder to make absolutely certain that he was completely alone.

Several times he had gone out into the woods by himself, or later with Will at his side, and just poured out his magic in whatever way that he could, hoping to exhaust himself to the point that his magic would settle down. That had never really worked as well as he had hoped, but it had gotten him by. Only when he moved to Camelot had he managed to get a grip on himself properly, with advice from Gaius and the metaphorical axe hanging over his head. The looming threat of execution was a much better motivator than any warning his mother ever could have come up with to try and keep him in line.

“Well, I think your shielding is up to par,” Sir Frederick, the mage to whom Gerund had delegated the task of training the new recruits, said with a wry twist to his lips as he jogged over from the sidelines. “Any enemy of yours will wear himself out long before he manages to break through a shield that strong. Of course, that doesn’t mean that you should rely on that sort of shield completely. They only protect you from one angle, and they take up your concentration and leave you vulnerable to attacks from the rear and sides.”

“Are there shields that wrap around entirely?” Merlin asked curiously. If he had to focus entirely on sustaining that one spell, then it seemed like it would be more of a hindrance than a help. Unless he were fighting only one opponent, in which case he felt that he would be more likely to take the offensive approach rather than hide behind a shield. He would want the battle over and done with as quickly as possible.

“There are,” Sir Frederick said approvingly. “There are a few different spells that can take different shapes, but they take considerably more power to maintain.”

“I really don’t think that will be much of a problem for him,” the exhausted mage pointed out. “I threw everything I’ve got at him and he’s not even winded.” Sir Frederick nodded and shrugged at the same time, having to concede the point.

“You're tapped out for the day, Timmons. Head on over and get some sword practice in,” he said, waving the mage off toward the adjacent field where a number of secular knights were running through their forms and stances, blunted practice swords flashing as they cut through the air. Merlin could see Lord Ellison there, clad in chainmail gambeson and engaged in a sparring session. Even from a distance Merlin could see that Ellison was a talented swordsman, if a little unnecessarily aggressive in his style. However, Merlin suspected that that was only because the council was currently holed up in discussions and Ellison, as one of the subjects of the debate, was not allowed to participate.

“And send over that new kid, will you?" Frederick added thoughtfully. "He’s got some serious power. Let’s see how he holds up.” Timmons nodded and jogged off the field as Frederick explained the new spells to Merlin, walking him through the first incantation a time or two. By the time Mordred had joined them, Merlin was relatively confident in his ability to cast the spell; the language of the Old Religion had always come easily to him, ever since the first time that he had picked up the book that Gaius had given him and found that he could read the foreign words written inside without ever having been taught their meaning, as if he already knew them on some level.

“Go on then, Merlin,” Sir Frederick called, moving back out of the line of fire. Merlin settled himself into a defensive stance, breathing deeply to center himself. He reached deep down inside himself to that place in the pit of his stomach that always felt hot, calling upon the warm presence that was his magic, drawing it forth until it hummed in his fingertips and danced along his skin like the crackle of lightning. It was a rush, as it always was, that feeling of power and pure energy, exhilarating in a way that nothing else could ever hope to be.

“Befielde mec æghwæs sidrande,” he intoned, lifting his hands above his head and bringing them down again slowly, leaving in their wake a wash of golden light. It enclosed him from head to foot, a luminous bubble of protection that Merlin could feel, could sense as an extension of himself. Once it was fully in place, he saw Mordred slide into a ready stance across from him, already forming words of the Old Religion on his lips.

Merlin barely felt the first spell connect. It glanced off his shield as if it were nothing more than a gust of wind, a splash of cool water, strong though he knew Mordred to be. The next was stronger, a wash of magic questing across his own, pushing and testing for weak spots that it didn’t find, and this time Merlin felt the vacuum left in its wake as it receded, the way it felt almost as if his own magic was being drawn out with it, like eager to stay with like. As attack after attack fell on his shield, an insistent push and tug against the edges of his mind that was the brush of foreign magic against his own, an idea formed in Merlin’s head. It was risky, impossible according to what he had been told, but he had accomplished the impossible before, and the result would be worth it if the risk paid off.

Merlin closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the throb of energy through his body, pulled along in his blood, released through his palms and his fingertips to enter the air around him and become reality. Merlin extended one hand to the side, focusing on the feeling of channeling magic in that direction and keeping the flow of it steady and constant down his arm and out of his fingertips and to the shield. The influx of foreign magic from Mordred’s assault was a distraction and Merlin poured more magic into his shield, making it thicker and more resistant to soften the blows.

Then he raised his other hand in front of him, closing his eyes briefly in order to better concentrate on what he was doing. He had always been very good at multitasking in his everyday life, after all. Why should the same not hold true when it came to magic? He began thinking through his repertoire of spells, but he had to stop briefly when his hold on the shield faltered ever so slightly, Mordred’s magic digging into the weakness and trying to make it crack. Merlin took another deep breath and reestablished his connection with it through his left hand, repairing the damage, and then he tried again, holding the shield steady as he thought of a different spell entirely.

“Tòdrìfe þone wiðerwinnan,” he gritted out, struggling to pull his magic in two directions at once, to split the flow of it in half and channel it toward different purposes. To his immense gratification, it worked. The shield stayed where it was, still functioning as it was meant to with only a slight flicker of weakness, and a second push of his magic sent Mordred flying off his feet. The effort left Merlin feeling a little lightheaded, but now he knew that it could be done. It was possible to perform two spells at once, to throw out an attack while maintaining a magical shield, despite what Sir Frederick had initially claimed.

Merlin let the shield fall gratefully, panting now as Sir Timmons had been earlier. He hurried across the field to offer his hand to Mordred where he lay winded, pulling the younger man to his feet. He looked dumbfounded, staring wide-eyed at Merlin. Sir Frederick also appeared too thunderstruck by what Merlin had achieved to speak. Sir Gerund had arrived at some point during the duel and was standing at Sir Frederick’s side, gaping openly. Really, everyone on the entire field, and the field adjacent, and those walking past, all seemed to have stopped what they were doing to stare at him in astonishment. Merlin tugged at his new chainmail, the neck of it suddenly feeling too tight around his throat.

“How—how did you do that?” Sir Frederick finally managed to choke out.

“I just wanted to see if it could be done,” Merlin said a bit defensively, uncomfortable with all the attention. “Magical multitasking. Two spells at once, I mean. Protection _and_ offense. I don’t want to need to wait until my opponent wears himself out and stops attacking before I can safely return fire.”

“Impossible!” a stodgy-looking old man cried from behind the fence on the perimeter of the magical training field. Merlin thought he might have been one of the lesser council members. If he wasn’t still shut up in the council chambers, then they must have concluded their session for the day without coming to a decision; there would surely have been an announcement if they had. “It can’t be done! It simply can’t be!"

“Obviously it can,” Sir Gerund pointed out. “That’s astounding, Merlin.”

“Is it really?” he asked dubiously. A number of secular knights had gathered by the fence as well, nudging each other and shaking their heads in something like wonder. Ellison didn't join them, opting instead to stab his sword into the ground where his sparring partner had abandoned him. Merlin couldn't read his expression across the distance, but he didn't look particularly pleased with the attention Merlin was getting. Not that Merlin was any more pleased with it, but he didn't need any more reasons for Ellison to dislike him.

“It’s unprecedented,” Sir Frederick exclaimed. “I have never heard tell of someone achieving such a thing.” Merlin flushed darkly, partly pleased, partly embarrassed, and partly thoroughly depressed. It wasn’t like it would be the first thing he had achieved that no one else had, but that didn't make it any less alienating to be the only person capable of such a thing. A glance back at the other field showed that Ellison was halfway back to the castle, leaving his practice sword stuck into the ground in the middle of the training field.

“Would you be able to teach me?” Mordred asked eagerly, putting a hand on his shoulder. Merlin looked at the young knight, surprised but considering it; Mordred had a formidable gift, nearly as strong as Morgana’s. While Merlin knew himself to be more powerful than them both by a good deal, Mordred’s magic was still likely to be stronger than the magic of most everyone else in attendance. If anyone could match him in this, it would be Mordred.

“I could certainly try,” he said, a small smile making its way onto his lips. “You just need to split your atten—” he began, but he was interrupted by an urgent cry.

“Sir Gerund!” They all turned to see a knight hurrying toward them from the direction of the castle, his blue cloak fluttering in his wake. Gerund stepped forward, waving him down.

“What is it, Sir Galahad?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

“There has been another report,” Galahad told him. “There has been direct contact with her just over the southern border.”

“She crossed the border?” Gerund demanded sharply, his face hardening.

“Yes, sir. She invaded the estate of Lord Hendle, trying to persuade him to lend her his support. He refused and called for his guards. There was a fight, but there were no fatalities. She fled the premises by means of a transportation spell and we were unable to track her.”

Gerund’s expression tightened further and Merlin got a heavy, sinking feeling of dread in his stomach; there were not many who were powerful enough to inspire such alarm on their own. He only knew of one, and a quick exchange of glances with Mordred showed that he was thinking the same thing. Her name did not need to be said. It seemed that everyone within earshot knew exactly of whom the knight was speaking.

“She grows bolder still,” Gerund said tensely, his fists clenched by his sides. “If she has ventured over our borders and assaulted one of our own, then we must prepare for the day when she comes for us directly. Double the guard by the southern border, and the western as well. No patrol should be without at least two mages; we cannot afford to engage her without strong magic, no matter our numbers.” Sir Galahad nodded briskly and hurried off to carry out his orders.

“Gerund,” Merlin said, stepping close so that his voice would not carry. “You speak of Morgana, do you not?” Gerund nodded sharply, his jaw clenched.

“She has been a growing presence since Queen Eleanor’s death,” he said.

“You think that she hopes to seize the kingdom for herself?” Mordred asked.

“Yes. And her strength alone may have been enough to win her the throne,” Gerund answered grimly. “Lord Ellison would have been no match for her magically, nor would any of the other Lords who were hoping to seize the throne while they had the opportunity. We have managed to hold her at bay, but she has grown more audacious as of late. It is only a matter of time before she makes a bid for power.”

“Is there no way to discourage her? Aside from outright battle, that is,” Merlin asked.

“There is one way,” Gerund said. “Come, Merlin. Let us inform the council that they have run out of time to bicker. Their decision must be made now. Morgana will have more trouble seizing a throne if it has already been filled.” He immediately turned to lead the way back toward the castle. Merlin did not hesitate to follow him this time, Mordred falling in at his side without missing a beat. Morgana was his enemy and his responsibility, and he would do anything to stop the people of Carthis from suffering at her hand the way the citizens of Camelot had.


	13. Chapter Twelve

The decision was made quickly after the news of Morgana’s continued approach reached the council’s ears. It was not a unanimous conclusion, but the majority of the council members did vote in favor of Merlin, supporting his claim over Ellison’s much to the displeasure of the Lord’s father.

Everything happened very quickly after that, no one wanting to waste a moment with the threat of attack hanging over them. By noon on the next day, the throne room had been hastily decorated with banners and flowers and the announcement had been made to the people of Carthis that the coronation of their new king would take place that very evening. The ceremony was not nearly as lavish as it could have been, for which Merlin could only be grateful, but it was still a great deal of pomp and circumstance, as much as could be mustered up on such short notice.

It was all a bit of a haze in Merlin’s memory, a vivid rush of impressions and sensations that didn’t quite stick in his mind. The feel of lush velvet on his skin, the dark blue of one of his father’s old doublets that had been hurriedly tailored to fit him better, the uncomfortable pinch of shiny new leather boots that had not yet had time to adjust to his feet, the rushing of blood in his ears drowning out all else, and the frantic thump of his heart as hundreds of eyes rested upon him, a wash of upturned faces all blurring one into the other.

He had stood tall and held his head high through the ceremony, reciting the required oaths and making the promises which were expected of him at all the proper times and without stumbling over the unfamiliar ceremonial words. He had knelt down on the steps at the front of the long room and allowed for the ornate golden crown to be placed upon his head by the Court Genealogist. He had sat stiffly upon the throne as Lord after Lord was presented to him, each of whom knelt upon the ground at his feet, kissing his ring and swearing his undying fealty.

He had looked out over the crowds of people— _his_ people—as the cry rang out, “ _Long live the King…long live the King…_ ”

He held it together admirably all the way through the official proceedings, but the moment that he found himself standing outside the doors to the banquet hall, having taken his leave halfway through the celebratory feast being held in his honor, alone for the first time all day, his carefully held composure shattered. He took off down the corridor in a dead sprint,  distantly glad that all of the staff were occupied elsewhere and that there was nobody around to witness this, rounding corner after corner with no thought as to where he was heading, only needing to get away from it all.

He found himself on a bench in an alcove down a corridor with which he was not familiar, bent over with his head between his knees. His breathing came in harsh gasps, each lungful getting stuck in his throat and burning there, choking him. The crown weighed heavily on his brow. He snatched it off of his head and threw it to the ground where it clattered loudly, skidding over to clank into the wall of the cramped recess. It didn’t help; the weight of the crown may have been gone but he could still feel the burden of it pressing down on him.

He tangled his fingers into his hair and struggled to calm himself. He remembered what Gaius had told him once about hyperventilation and tried to take deep, slow, steady breaths. He focused on the frantic beating of his heart, counting the beats and matching his breathing to them. Drag in air in four heartbeats, blow it out for four more. In for four, out for four. Gradually the rhythm slowed down and his head stopped spinning quite so much.

He didn’t remember starting to cry but his face was definitely wet and there were droplets splattering on the stone beneath his feet. He found it rather difficult to stop, but he managed it. Once he felt steady enough to do so, he sat up and dragged the sleeve of his doublet across his face, not really caring that he was getting the expensive material wet. A glint of gold caught his eye and drew it to the crown, sitting innocuously where he had thrown it. He picked it up with trembling hands.

It was lighter than Arthur’s was, more delicately made than the heavy crown that Merlin had so often polished, but it carried with it the weight of an entire kingdom, of the lives of all the people who lived within its borders. They were his responsibility now, all of them: men and women, sons and daughters, mothers and fathers. All of them would be looking to him to keep them safe from harm, depending on his leadership and his guidance. His knuckles were white with the strength of his grip, the metal of the crown biting into his fingers, and he consciously forced himself to relax his hold.

There was no going back now. It was done. He was a king now, _their_ king. He rubbed his thumb over the scattering of precious stones in their golden settings, seeing his own face reflected back at him, colored and upside down and oddly distorted. His throat constricted again and he squeezed his eyes closed against the sight, blocking the crown from his view but unable to escape the knowledge of it. He drew in as much air as he could and held it there until his lungs screamed in protest and darkness began to encroach on the edges of his vision and then let it out in a long, shuddering breath.

Merlin had no idea how to be a king. The very idea of it scared him more than anything else in his life ever had, except possibly the thought of losing Arthur. But there was no other choice for him now. The decision had been made and the deed was done. He was the king and there was no turning back from that, no matter how much he may want to.

He wiped at his face more forcefully, suddenly feeling rather angry at himself for his own weakness. He might not be capable of ruling these people how they deserved to be ruled, but he would certainly do them no good hiding in an alcove. He couldn’t stay here any longer. He forced himself to his feet but he could not bring himself to place the crown on his head. He began walking with no destination in mind and was surprised to find himself knocking on the door to Mordred’s chambers. The young knight looked equally surprised to see him there.

“Merlin!” he exclaimed upon opening the door. Then his eyebrows contracted in concern as he examined Merlin’s face, probably seeing evidence of tears there despite Merlin’s previous efforts to remove them. He stood back and gestured his welcome and Merlin stepped inside, very awkward all of a sudden.  “Are you quite alright, Merlin?” Mordred asked.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Merlin assured him quickly, knowing it to be a lie. Mordred gave him a look that told him quite plainly that he didn’t believe a word of it and Merlin shifted on his feet, dropping his gaze to the floor uncomfortably. “Just a…a little overwhelmed, I guess,” he said, moving to wave his hand dismissively and finding that he was still holding his crown. He gestured with that instead. “It’s just all a bit much.”

“So you come to me?” Mordred inquired, his tone hard to read but vaguely confused. The truth be told, Merlin was confused as well. Why _had_ he sought out Mordred, of all people? He mouthed soundlessly for a moment, groping for words.

“I just…wanted to see a familiar face, I supposed,” he said finally. He wanted to be with someone who knew him as just _Merlin_ , not as _King Merlin of the house of Ambrosius_. Someone who knew him from before, who didn’t expect so much of him. He found himself clutching at the crown again, staring blankly at it with a sort of buzzing filling his head and obscuring all thought. Then Mordred’s hands were on his, gently prizing the crown from his grip. Merlin let go of it willingly and watched numbly as Mordred laid it atop his bureau and then turned to retrieve something from his writing desk.

“I ran into Kane today,” he said. Merlin blinked at the non sequitur.

“Oh?”

“He was looking for you. He heard about what you did on the training grounds yesterday. He was very impressed,” Mordred said, holding up a large leather bound book. “He gave me this to pass on to you. It’s a theoretical work on the direction of energy flows. He thought it might be helpful to you. I confess that I read a great deal of it. I hope that you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Merlin said blankly, his mind having trouble processing the switch in conversation topics. His thoughts were sluggish and his head hurt a bit. Mordred placed the book back on the table, seeming to realize that Merlin was not going to take it from him. Instead he reached for a pitcher of wine, pouring two goblets and holding one out to Merlin.

“Here,” he said. “Have a drink with me. Come and sit by the fire for a while. You can walk me through what you did yesterday. And I can tell you what I learned from that book.” Merlin allowed himself to be steered into a chair, to have the goblet pressed into his hand, to drink until he didn’t feel quite so numb. And they talked. They talked for a long while, and by the time that the candles had guttered low in their holders, Merlin found that he had quite forgotten about the crown sitting innocuously on Mordred’s bureau. He retrieved it when he went to leave, but he stopped at the door, turning back.

“Thank you, Mordred,” he said sincerely.

“That’s what friends are for, is it not?” he offered. Merlin nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” he said softly, wonderingly. The young knight smiled at him and the crown in his hands did not feel quite so heavy as it had before.

 

\--

 

“Your sword has been sharpened, sire, and your armour has been cleaned and polished. The stables have been mucked and your dogs have been exercised. A bath has been prepared for you, sire, should you need it. And it is rather chilly outside today, sire, so I laid out your warmest cloak for you. If you would like, sire, I could—”

“No, George, thank you. That will be all, George,” Arthur said through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to rub soothingly at his temples where a headache was already growing.

“If you are quite certain, sire,” George said briskly.

“Yes, George, completely certain,” Arthur all but growled.

“As you wish, sire.” George gave him a crisp bow, suitably low and flawlessly executed, before turning on his heel to exit the room with barely a whisper of his footsteps on the stone floor. As soon as the door was shut nearly silently behind him, Arthur heard his wife’s barely stifled giggle from the adjacent chamber and turned to scowl at her.

“If I hear the word ‘ _sire_ ’ come out of that dreadful man’s mouth one more bloody time…” he vowed, not entirely sure what the punishment would be but sure that it would be appropriately painful and humiliating.

“Arthur,” Guinevere reprimanded with no small amount of amusement, leaving the seat at her vanity to come perch on the arm of Arthur’s chair instead. “He is not dreadful.”

“Yes, he _is_ , Gwen, he’s _awful_ ,” Arthur moaned pitifully. She just smiled indulgently and stroked his hair back from his face, knowing exactly how good it would be for his budding headache. Arthur leaned into the touch gratefully, knowing that he was being petulant but really not caring. “He’s so bloody prompt and respectful and so damnably quiet.”

“You only dislike him because he isn’t Merlin,” Guinevere said. Of course, that was completely true, but Arthur wasn’t going to admit to that. He humphed unintelligibly instead.

Merlin’s absence was glaringly obvious. It had only been five days since Merlin had last been at his side, but it felt like it had been much longer than that. Several times throughout the previous day, when Arthur had been in meetings or taking audiences as was expected of him, he had found himself turning to share a commiserating or exasperated look with Merlin over some councilor’s tediousness only to find the space beside him empty. It sent a raw sort of jolt through him every time, a reminder of everything that had happened and how much it had all changed. Everything was different now— _he_ was different now—but life in Camelot continued on as usual in spite of that.

And _George_ had taken over as Arthur’s new permanent manservant. He was the exact opposite of Merlin in practically every way, except for his frankly rather disturbing tendency to dress just like him. He was scarily efficient whereas Merlin had had a tendency to put things off for as long as possible, always prompt whereas Merlin would stumble in several minutes late every morning with an unapologetic grin on his face, virtually noiseless whereas Merlin tripped over his own feet and sometimes chattered on and on without ever pausing to draw breath. He had only been on the job for one day and he was already driving Arthur absolutely crazy with his constant propriety, something that Merlin had never even bothered with.

George did have a knack for anticipating what Arthur would need, as he always had done in the past, but there were certain needs that he simply could not meet. Arthur was quickly coming to realize just how much he had taken Merlin for granted, his support and his advice and his mere presence. Now that he was gone, Arthur found that he missed him a great deal more than he would like to acknowledge. Council meetings were dead boring without Merlin standing at his shoulder and making disbelieving noises at the councilors’ more ridiculous suggestions and muttering snarky comments under his breath whenever he leaned forward to fill up Arthur’s cup.

And while George had polished his armour to a luster never before known to man, Arthur would much rather go back to the days when his chainmail was dull and lackluster but he was secure in the knowledge that Merlin had checked over every single link to make absolutely certain that they were strong simply because he cared and wanted Arthur to be safe. George was perfectly capable of following Arthur’s orders and cleaning up after him, but Merlin had actually taken care of him. He was only now realizing the difference between the two.

“Come on,” Guinevere said, standing up and taking his hand to pull him to his feet as well. “You should go outside, get some fresh air. Go train with your knights for a while; it will help you clear your head.”

She helped him into his armour herself rather than calling George back, knowing how counterproductive that would be to lifting Arthur’s mood and probably being more efficient at it anyway, having grown up surrounded by armour and weapons in her father’s forge. She placed a quick kiss on his lips before pushing him out of the door. Arthur headed toward the armoury to retrieve one of the practice swords, heavily blunted to keep the knights from seriously injuring one another during training. As he approached, he heard low voices coming from within and stopped to listen.

“I was just always taught that magic was a corruptive force,” he heard. “That those who were seduced by the power it offered became twisted and merciless, always questing for more of that power.” The voice was Leon’s, he thought, and it made sense. He had been Uther’s knight before he had been Arthur’s, one of his father’s most loyal. He was only a few years older than Arthur himself and had grown up with many of the same influences, all of them calling for the utter eradication of magic. “But it sounds as if Merlin has been practicing magic for years, and he has made no move to gain power for himself.”

“Well, he wouldn’t, would he?” came Gwaine’s gruff voice. “He’s Merlin.”

“Exactly,” Leon sighed, still sounding conflicted by the obvious disagreement with what he had been taught. “I just have a hard time reconciling _Merlin_ with _sorcerer_.” Arthur nodded to himself sympathetically, intimately familiar with that struggle.

“Where I grew up, it wasn’t nearly as big a deal,” Gwaine said.

“Where was that?” came a new voice. Elyan’s, Arthur thought.

“Caerleon,” Gwaine answered. “Magic was still against the law, but there was much less fear and paranoia as far as sorcery was concerned. Sorcerers were more likely to be slapped with a fine than burned at the stake.”

“In Escetia as well.” That was Percival; apparently all of his knights had just gathered in the armoury to have a chat, probably hoping to do so without him overhearing. Part of Arthur wanted to leave, to let them discuss in private, but he also wanted to hear what they thought when they weren’t censoring themselves. He was more likely to hear their honest opinion if they did not know that he was hearing them. And he would have to speak with them about it eventually; he owed them a real explanation about all of this. “There,” Percival continued, “magic was frowned upon, but not nearly so hated.”

“I just never would have guessed it of him,” Leon said. “He always came across as so hapless, so innocent.”

“I’ve had my suspicions for years,” Gwaine told them. “But even back then I knew him well enough to know that he would do no harm to anyone.”

“When I got back to Camelot, as soon as I had worked my way back into Gwen’s good graces—” Elyan was interrupted by a snicker from Leon, which made Arthur smile; Leon had known the siblings when they were all growing up and knew perfectly well that Gwen was the one in charge of the relationship. A muffled thump and a grunt of pain told Arthur that Elyan had probably hit Leon in retaliation.

“—she told me all about the friends she had made while I was gone. She said that Merlin was the kindest soul she had ever met, and a better friend than she could ever have asked for. He confessed to sorcery for her, she told me, in front of the king and the council and all, just to try and keep her from harm when she had been accused of using magic to cure our father from a plague. She said that she never found out who had really cured him. The way I see it, Merlin’s confession was an honest one. He saved my father’s life, and my sister’s, and gave them a few more months together. I can only ever be grateful to him for that, magic or no.”

 “He has always done his best to help everyone he can,” Percival said. “It seems he has done so even more than we know.”

“I was always told that those with magic were selfish,” Elyan said, “but Merlin is the most selfless person I have ever known. With or without magic, he throws himself into danger’s path for the sake of others every chance he gets.”

“Always,” Leon agreed. “He drank poison for Arthur without a second’s hesitation.”

“Ungrateful bastard,” Gwaine muttered darkly. Arthur’s stomach clenched along with his fists, but Leon answered him before Arthur had a chance to reveal himself.

“And then Arthur immediately disobeyed direct orders from the King to ride out in search of the antidote,” he said. “He spent two days in the dungeons for it, but he didn’t care because he had gotten back in time to save Merlin’s life. Merlin has obviously done a lot for him, but Art—”

“And look how the bastard repays him,” Gwaine growled. “He strangles him half to death!” Arthur could stay hidden no longer. He stepped around the corner to lean in the doorway, seeing his knights seated around the table with their practice swords before them. It looked as though they had been polishing them at one point but had given it up in favor of discussion.

“I told you, Gwaine, that it was not my finest moment,” he said, drawing their attention to his presence. Gwaine, of course, glared at him frostily, crossing his arms tightly across his chest, but the other three looked more indecisive, as though they weren’t certain how to treat him after all that had happened over the last few days. Arthur focused on Gwaine. “What I did was wrong, I know that, and I’m sorry for it.” Gwaine scoffed.

“Right. A fat lot of good that does us. Tell it to Merlin,” he sneered.

“I did tell that to Merlin,” Arthur insisted, much to the surprise of his men.

“You did? When?” Elyan asked in confusion. He had been asleep through most of it, Arthur remembered. Arthur had already done so by the time Elyan knew that anything had happened at all.

“I regretted my actions almost immediately and I sought him out later that night to apologize for them,” he said.

“That’s where you two were going when you snuck off into the forest in the middle of the night?” Leon asked, still sounding a tad irritated about it.

“Yes. Well, really, Merlin was sneaking off to contact the dragon, but I followed him with the intention of apologizing, yes.”

“He was _what_?” Leon yelped in surprise.

“Wait, I thought that you killed the dragon,” Percival put in confusedly. “Or that he did, or whatever.”

“Oh, no. Apparently the Great Dragon is still very much alive,” Arthur said, moving forward to collapse on the end of the bench beside Elyan and settling in to explain. “And his name is Kilgharrah.  And apparently dragons can talk. Did anyone ever tell you that, Leon? Because my father conveniently forgot to mention to me that dragons are intelligent beings capable of rational thought and fluent speech.” Leon gaped at him in astonishment, which Arthur took as a definitive _no_.

“So he didn’t kill the dragon when it attacked Camelot?” Elyan asked once more, just for clarification. Arthur nodded. “Why not?”

“He didn’t need to,” Arthur said. “He is a Dragonlord. He simply ordered Kilgharrah that he leave Camelot in peace. And he has.” The others took a long moment to take this in, the thought of Merlin commanding an enormous and powerfully magical creature and his orders actually being obeyed.

“I always thought it was strange,” Leon said finally. “We were the only three to survive that battle. At the time, it seemed nothing short of a miracle that Merlin walked away from that fight. I guess it makes a lot more sense now.”

“A whole host of things make a lot more sense now,” Arthur pointed out.

“Wyverns are related to dragons, are they not?” Gwaine spoke up a bit randomly.

“Er…I believe so,” Elyan said.

“Distant cousins or something, I think,” Percival agreed. “Why?”

“It would just explain a few things, that’s all,” Gwaine shrugged with a sideways glance at Arthur.

“Oh right. On the Isle of the Blessed,” Leon said. “Those wyverns seemed strangely reluctant to attack us.” Elyan and Percival nodded in agreement, but Gwaine just smirked at Arthur, knowing perfectly well that Arthur knew that was not the incident to which Gwaine had been referring. No, he was thinking of the Perilous Lands when he and Merlin had crashed in on Arthur’s quest.

Arthur remembered succumbing to his strange unnatural exhaustion with wyverns closing in menacingly on all sides and then waking up to Merlin’s smiling face and the wyverns nowhere to be seen. He had been far too irritated with Merlin for inviting himself along on what was supposed to be a _solo_ mission that he hadn’t thought much of it, but now it seemed obvious that Merlin had exerted his authority as a Dragonlord in order to get the wyverns to abandon their dinner. Arthur scowled back at Gwaine, but it only made the knight smirk wider and chuckle to himself in a satisfied sort of way. Elyan’s eyes narrowed at the exchange and he opened his mouth to question it, but Arthur jumped in hastily.

“At the rate we’re going, we’ll miss training altogether,” he pointed out. Leon—good old Leon, who was Arthur’s second-in-command and, really, one of them should be running the drills—jumped up immediately and the other knights followed suit in a more sedate manner. Gwaine clapped Arthur on the shoulder with a rather predatory smile.

“Come on, princess. I feel like having a good spar,” he said brightly and Arthur winced preemptively; this was going to leave marks, he just knew it. He couldn’t bring himself to feel too annoyed at the prospect of getting his arse handed to him by Gwaine, though, because the knight had ceased to glare at him like he wanted nothing more than for him to fall into the deepest pits of Hell and rot there, and that was progress. Despite what he had done and all that had happened, his friends were still his friends. And now he could only hope that Merlin would still count himself among them.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

Merlin was awakened the next morning by bright sunlight slapping him in the face as the curtains on his window were jerked back. He rolled over and buried his face in his pillow groggily, waving a hand at the curtains and sending them flying closed. They were opened again and Merlin grumbled in annoyance before realizing that someone had to be opening them and therefore there was another person in his chambers. He sat up and peered around the room confusedly to see a young man standing beside the window with his head down and his hands clasped in front of him in a classic image of subservience.

“Um…hello?” Merlin said muzzily, scratching his head and trying to wake up enough to understand what this boy was doing in his room.

“Good morning, sire,” the boy said briskly. “I brought your breakfast, my Lord. And I have taken the liberty of laying out your clothes for the morning.” It took Merlin a few more seconds before the words sunk in, blinking over at the platter of food on the writing desk, even more sumptuous than the meals with which he had been provided over the last few days.

“Wait, who are you?” he asked.

“I am your new manservant, sire.”

“What?!” Merlin yelped, scrambling to get up and nearly falling out of the bed in the process in a very undignified display of the clumsiness he thought he had mostly outgrown by this point. He should have seen this coming, he realized. He was the king now, of course he would be expected to have a servant to take care of him. That did not make the prospect any less bizarre. “Oh no, no. I don’t have a servant,” he said hastily and the boy looked absolutely crestfallen.

“Oh. I’m sorry, my Lord. Would you like for me to go?” he asked in a very small voice and looking so dejected that Merlin immediately cast about for something to say to fix it.

“No, you don’t…I didn’t mean that y…” he stammered uncomfortably. “I just wouldn’t know what to have you do, that’s all. I really don’t need a servant.”

“Why not, sire?” the boy asked, apparently baffled.

“Well, honestly, I’m more used to being on your side of things,” Merlin admitted with a shrug, running his fingers through his hair. The boy’s eyes widened comically.

“What?” he gasped. Merlin shifted uncomfortably; he hadn’t really expected to be able to keep this under wraps forever, but he had hoped to put it off a bit longer.

“I was manservant to a king for many years, and for several years before that when he was just a prince,” Merlin told him, a rush of nostalgia hitting him hard, which was a little sad considering it had been less than a week since that had changed. It felt like so much longer than that. “I’m used to doing everything for myself, and for him as well.”

“So you won’t be needing my help, my Lord?” the boy asked despondently and Merlin sighed.

“I mean, if you really want to, I guess that you could stay on to tidy things up or something,” he suggested with a vague gesture around the room. “Er, bring meals and things. I don’t want to put you out of a job or anything, but I certainly do _not_ need help getting dressed or anything like that,” he added on quickly; he was not Arthur and as such he was capable of dressing himself.

“Of course, sire, I would be happy to help you in any way that I can,” the boy said eagerly. He was really quite young, still full of that sort of enthusiasm that got young people springing out of bed in the morning. Merlin was getting tired just looking at him, feeling very old in comparison despite the fact that he was not yet thirty.

“Right. Er, what’s your name then?” he asked, realizing that in his alarm he had not thought to find out. If he was going to have a manservant trailing after him on a regular basis then he was most definitely going to be on friendly terms with him. But the boy seemed taken aback by the question.

“My name, sire?” he said.

“Yes, your name,” Merlin reiterated, equal parts irritated and concerned; was it really so uncommon for nobles to care enough about servants to bother with learning their names? Although, come to think of it, he could not remember a noble ever asking for his name when he was a servant, so it shouldn’t really have come as such a surprise. Arthur hadn’t exactly been the average nobleman.

“It’s Raime, my Lord.”

“Raime. It’s nice to meet you, Raime. And you can call me Merlin, if you like,” he offered. “I would actually prefer if you did. I never really bothered with calling my master any of that respectful nonsense. He was my friend. And I would like to be yours.” Raime matched his smile rather timidly but nodded nonetheless.

“Alright, si—er, Merlin,” he said a little breathlessly. “Is there anything that you’ll be needing today?”

“Well, actually, er… You don’t happen to know what I’m supposed to do today, do you?” Merlin asked sheepishly. “As it happens, I’m a bit new on the job. I haven’t got the foggiest idea of what I’m expected to be doing.” Raime’s face lit up and he hastily dug around in his pocket to retrieve a tightly furled scroll, holding it out for him to take.

“The High Priest gave this to me for you,” he said. “He said that he would like for you to drop by his study sometime today. But I think the Royal Bookkeeper wanted to meet with you first to go over some numbers or other. Council meetings usually take place in late morning, I’m sure you’ll be expected to attend those. And of course, knight and mage training are in the afternoon if you wish to join either of them.” Merlin nodded a bit dazedly.

It took him a moment, and a raised eyebrow from his new manservant, to realize that he should probably be doing something other than standing there and feeling overwhelmed, so he finally managed to make himself move. He sat down at his desk, feeling only the tiniest bit awkward that there was another person in the room just watching him, and gulped down as much of the breakfast that Raime had brought as he thought that he would be able to keep in his stomach when the true nerves kicked in. He dressed in the outfit which Raime had laid out for him—a little bit showier than anything he would have chosen for himself but probably still low fare for a king—and made his way out the door, hoping to run into a guard who could give him directions to the Royal Bookkeeper. He immediately collided with someone on the other side, knocking a pile of linens out of her hand and nearly sending her sprawling along with them.

“Ooh! Sorry, so sorry. My fault, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he apologized immediately, bending down to scoop up the laundry for her. Looking up, he saw a familiar face. “It’s Fran, isn’t it?” he asked with a smile. “You brought me breakfast on my first day here.” She let out a squeak in lieu of a word but nodded, apparently even more taken aback that he had remembered her name than she had been that he had asked for it in the first place. Merlin proffered up the washing to her, depositing it in her outstretched hands. He caught sight of a smear of dust on one of the sheets.

“Sorry about that. Here, let me fix it for you. Ic àswæpe þæt lìnenhrægl.” The dust siphoned itself off of the fabric, leaving it as clean as it had been before, and Merlin beamed at the serving girl. A smile, small and bemused and tinged with awe but definitely present, appeared on Fran’s face in response. The sound of footsteps coming toward them reminded Merlin that he had places to be. “I need to go, but have a good day, Fran. You too, Raime!” he called back into his own room.

Fran hurried past him into the room to change the sheets as she had originally intended and Merlin heard Raime immediately begin to fill her in on all the astonishing things that he had learned that morning. Merlin grimaced as he headed off down the corridor in what was the direction of the council chambers, if he was not mistaken—he was still having a bit of trouble with navigating the castle.

The knowledge of his previous employment would be all over the castle by nightfall, he was sure of it. He was not ashamed of having been a servant, not in the least, but it might be a bit of a detriment as far as the council was concerned. If being a low-born bastard was not enough to make him unfit to rule in their eyes, his years of servitude might be enough to tip them over the edge from uncertainty into outright disbelief once more. Not that they could exactly go back on their decision now, not when the crown was already on his head—although he had chosen not to wear it for his consultation with the Royal Bookkeeper; he would come back for it before the council meeting later on. Well, Merlin thought defiantly, if they did not think a servant fit to rule, then he would just have to prove them wrong.

 

\--

 

The next few days were busy, but probably not really as busy as they felt to Merlin. It was all so new and so important that it felt rushed, larger than life. His mornings were often spent shut up in a small room full of loose sheaves of parchment with the Royal Bookkeeper, a thin, stooped man with a wheezy voice and splotches of ink in unlikely places who had been tasked with getting him up to date on all the pertinent information of his kingdom. He was inundated with facts and figures, everything from records of the harvests from the outlying villages to the projected rationings of the grain stores to the amount of gold in the royal coffers and how far he could make it stretch.

It wasn’t so bad, he thought. He had always had a decent head for numbers. It had happened fairly often in Camelot that Merlin would shoo Arthur off to bed halfway through his paperwork when it became obvious that the king was too tired to do it properly anymore, finishing the stack of ledgers and papers himself so that Arthur would still be prepared for the following day’s meetings. He had worked with such figures before without a problem. It was just such a huge flood of information, all of which he was expected to remember if he wished for his input to be at all useful to the council.

On mornings when the Royal Bookkeeper was busy with other important bookkeeper things, whatever those might be, Merlin sometimes met with the Court Librarian. The very old man took him back through the ancient books which detailed the laws on which Carthis had been built, making sure that he was familiar with the customs and statutes of his new kingdom. After all, how could he be expected to uphold the laws if he did not know what exactly they were? He couldn’t say that he didn’t enjoy these meetings in a way.

Seeing the way that magic factored into the laws was rather fascinating, especially when he had only ever known absolute prohibition of any such thing. There were whole classes of hexes and curses that were strictly forbidden, spells and rituals which were punishable by death, but Merlin understood those; Arthur had a point when he said that completely unfettered sorcery was a bad thing. There were regulations set down for the practice of magic, for what was and was not acceptable. As tedious as all the legal jargon that he had to sift through to get to the heart of the matter was, the laws themselves proved to be as interesting as they were pertinent.

A time or two he had even been taken aside by Sir Gerund, who had given him a rundown of all the big families of Carthis: the names he needed to know, who was related to whom, the political scandals and the tensions between the various Lords, anything that might be of use in the politics of a royal court. All of it was good information for him to have, but it stretched his brain to capacity sometimes. He had spent much of his time in Camelot pointedly ignoring all the petty struggles of the court, choosing to focus on the more important tasks, such as getting his chores done on time and keeping Arthur alive.

He was not at all used to watching every word that came out of his mouth and keeping a close eye on whom he was speaking to, trying to determine the angle that would be most effective in achieving his goal. It was almost as exhausting to think that way as it had been to look over his shoulder all the time and struggle to keep complete control of his magic so as not to be executed, and just as stressful. He’d drawn out a chart on a large piece of parchment with names of Houses, and squiggly lines denoting relationships and alliances, and annotations on points he needed to remember about them. He referred to it often, hoping it would stick.

The late mornings usually found him in the council chambers surrounded by stuffy Lords and haughty Ladies who had not yet made up their minds about him, some of them having warmed up to him considerably while others remained dubious. Only Lords Ellison and Tennison still disparaged his abilities now that he’d been crowned, though they usually did so quietly enough that they could reasonably pretend they had not said anything at all. It set Merlin’s teeth on edge, but he held his tongue; with his position as precarious as it was, he could not afford to risk losing the support of the other councilors by further alienating the pair of them.

He kept a cool head about all the passive aggression and pointed remarks and backhanded compliments, listening carefully to everything that was said and offering whatever solutions came to his mind. Wisely, he opted to stay silent when he did not feel informed enough to make a good decision, instead listening to the suggestions offered up by others and assimilated them into his growing bank of knowledge about the kingdom to be referred the next time the topic came up. Oftentimes the meeting took place around him, in a way, the councilors speaking mostly to each other and not including him in the conversation unless he inserted himself, which he made sure to do on a regular basis simply to remind them that he was, in fact, still there.

Although the members of the council were still a bit chilly towards him, the palace staff simply adored him. Not that that was much of a surprise, as he had always been very popular among the staff in Camelot, but that was different because he had been one of them. The servants here regarded him with a sort of awed admiration, as if they couldn’t quite believe that he was real. He was royalty, their superior, but he treated each and every one of them as his equal, and they loved him for it.

Merlin wished that he had the opportunity to venture forth into the lower town, to speak with the townspeople one on one and get to know some of them personally, but he simply did not have the time for it, not with everything that he still had to learn and catch up on. He’d barely had the opportunity to visit Llamrei in the royal stables, and he’d only managed that because he’d swathed himself in an enormous cloak and used copious amounts of magic to make sure no one recognized him as he snuck down there in the middle of the night—it had been a challenge, but he’d needed a moment of that unconditional, nonjudgmental affection that only animals provide. He’d needed that piece of home to keep himself anchored. But he vowed that at some point, once he was more settled into his position, he would make the time to meet the townsfolk properly.

Mordred dragged him out to the training fields most afternoons to work with the mages. He learned the proper stances, the correct forms, a variety of new spells both defensive and offensive, and how to use them properly in a battle. All of it came to him easily, as natural to him as the language of the Old Religion was, as if he only needed to be reminded of something he already knew somehow. He found himself wondering why he had been reluctant in the beginning. It felt fantastic, using his magic, stretching it, pitting himself against others and testing his limits. He found himself paired with Mordred more often than not, the younger knight being one of the few strong enough to hold their own against him for any appreciable length of time.

Every session brought more reverential looks from those around him as they took in his immense power, whispers of Emrys permeating the crowd whenever someone of Druidic heritage caught sight of him. The Druids knew him on sight, and it hadn’t been a day before it began to spread. Plenty of people had been skeptical, but Druids commanded a good deal of respect, and their instincts were to be trusted. With all the Druids in agreement that he was, in fact, Emrys, the rest had no choice but to accept it as truth. He didn’t mind too much that everyone knew, but he was glad that no one had made mention of the prophecies; he wouldn’t know what to tell them, not with him and Arthur so at odds.

Whenever he joined mage training, Merlin asked questions of his instructors. He pressed them to try new and more daring things, and he challenged their assumptions of what was possible and what was not. He was not sure if they appreciated this about him or if they found it irritating, but that didn’t stop him from doing it. There was too much joy to be found in pushing the boundaries, in experimenting. He worked with Mordred periodically on splitting his focus in order to accomplish two spells at once. It took the young knight a considerably larger amount of effort than it did for Merlin, who was quickly becoming quite proficient at his newfound skill, but he had managed to pull it off a handful of times. Merlin found himself beaming with pride every time Mordred made even the tiniest bit of progress.

In return, Mordred had insisted on training Merlin in swordplay. Merlin’s lack of enthusiasm for the prospect had not dampened the young knight’s determination in the least and Merlin spent several hours with a sword in his hand, working through a slightly watered down version of the secular knights’ training, which Mordred still attended alongside the mage sessions. Mordred was a very patient teacher, much more so than Arthur had been back when Merlin had first started and he had used Merlin as a training dummy under the guise of teaching him.

Merlin actually found himself enjoying these sessions, much to his own surprise. Maybe it had something to do with how Mordred was surprisingly funny when he let down his guard. The joy of true freedom, the thrill of the acceptance and respect they had both found here, brought about a much less tightly controlled Mordred, one who smiled freely and laughed openly. It was a nice change, one that made Merlin very glad that he had asked Mordred to accompany him.

But even better than the physical training sessions were the evenings Merlin spent in Kane’s study, working with Kane individually or joining in the bustle of activity that surrounded the Lower Priests in their workshops. Whenever he could find the time, when he was not stuffing his head with information or giving or taking beatings—depending on whether he was using magic or sword, respectively—on the training field, he made his way up to the tallest tower in the east wing. The idea he had proposed on that first day, the transportation crystals, had delighted the Lower Priests when Kane had explained it to them and they had been working on it diligently ever since. They had blown up several crystals in the experimenting process when the pendants they made were unable to handle the amount of magic being forced into them, but now, only a few days later, Merlin had been presented with a functional prototype.

It was a surprisingly small circular pendant made of three different types of crystal—the three that Merlin had initially suggested, he was very satisfied to see—all fused together into a single entity through a very tricky and highly theoretical piece of magic that Kane had not had the time or the patience to explain to Merlin in full, the smooth edges of the shape etched with delicate runes. Merlin wore it around his neck, reaching up periodically to infuse it with more magic. Sometimes it was just a trickle, not nearly enough to make even the smallest dent to his supply of energy, but enough that it added up quickly. The pendant was soon throbbing with power, enough for several transportation spells should he need them.

Merlin found himself beaming every time he thought of it, immensely proud of having been a part of this new spectacular innovation. They had already started work on Merlin’s next proposal: a cloak which could be imbued with a spell of invisibility, so that the wearer would not have to hold the spell himself and therefore would be free to do other things while maintaining his stealth. The initial attempts at getting the enchantment to stick to the fabric had all failed, but they were now working on working runes into the fabric itself the most recent experiment gave some promising results. They were dickering over whether weaving them into the weft would be more effective than embroidering them in.

Merlin had so far managed to avoid dining with any important people—luckily for him, it would take some time before word of his coronation spread to monarchs who would actually wish to visit Carthis and get the measure of him, so he had some time to settle into his role and hopefully not make a fool of himself. For now, he broke his fast alone in his room, or sometimes chatted idly to Raime, who listened attentively from his place at Merlin’s elbow and answered readily enough if Merlin addressed him first. He was a nice lad, really, quick-witted and funny. Lunch was usually spent in the same way, although he had twice now requested that his meal be brought to him in the council chambers so that he could continue going over papers and records and notes from the meetings that he had suffered through that morning.

Sir Gerund had joined him a few times for dinner in the smallest dining hall, and Mordred a couple of times as well. These were the most pleasant, as Gerund often fell to reminiscing about his childhood, regaling him with tales of his father as a youth which Merlin ate up like a starving man presented with a banquet. The two of them had been troublemakers, Merlin was pleased to hear, much like he and Will had been back in Ealdor but with the added spice of thoroughly disrupting the peace and serenity of court life. The story of his father setting a breeze to blow up the noblewomen's skirts and knock askew old Lord Riggen's hairpiece had Merlin choking on his wine and wishing fiercely that he had known Balinor before all that mischief had left him.

The few dinners he had shared with Lady Penbrook had been similar. She had all the courtly bearing of the most regal of queens, but the smirk that often tugged at the corner of her mouth hinted at an underlying good humor. She shared even earlier stories of when Balinor was a mere child always trying to sneak away from his minders, of having to hitch up her skirts and chase the little prince through the stacks of the library to keep him from avoiding their lessons on magical history. Penbrook was a talented witch and an accomplished scholar, steeped in arcane knowledge and only too keen to share it with Merlin.

Only once had he been joined by Lord Melbourne, which had made for stilted and uncomfortable conversation. Merlin's first instinct had been to crack jokes to break the tension, but something told him that would be exactly the wrong thing to do in present company so he'd stuck to small talk and rehashing the latest council sessions. All in all, he felt like he had handled himself relatively well. He had not knocked anything over, at least, or committed any horrible gaffe, and Lord Melbourne had given him a more respectful bow when they parted ways for the evening than he had when he’d shown up, so it couldn’t have been too bad.

All in all, by the end of every day Merlin was exhausted. He collapsed into bed with his brain buzzing with facts and figures and names and theories and stances and terms and he slept like the dead until Raime came in to chivvy him out of bed the next morning. Now Merlin knew why Arthur had always been such a bloody pain to rouse. He hoped that whoever had replaced him as Arthur’s servant was bold enough to physically drag the lazy arse out of bed to wake him up, since that was often the only way the feat could be accomplished. He seriously doubted it, though.

It had taken a whole lot of persuading, but he had finally broken Raime of his fear of upsetting his master and convinced him that it was alright for him to use force in waking Merlin up. Twice now, Raime had had to start dragging him from his bed in order to rouse him, though he hadn’t yet actually dumped him on the floor like Merlin often had Arthur, but he was sure the time would come when such extreme measures became necessary and that time would come soon. But tiring as they all were, Merlin was thankful for all the distractions of the day because they kept him from dwelling on his less pleasant thoughts.

He missed Camelot. He missed it so much that he ached with it. He was quickly coming to love Carthis, with all its magic and its freedom, but Camelot would always be his home. He missed his friends, all of them. He wanted to go to the tavern with Gwaine and laugh over his outrageously exaggerated stories. He wanted to sit with Gwen and gossip teasingly about Arthur just close enough for him to overhear and then laugh childishly when he caught them out. He wanted to help Gaius prepare his remedies and only half-listen to the old man prattle on about the properties of the herbs he had just gathered. He wanted to go on a campaign and be teased relentlessly by the knights even as they helped him with all the chores that were supposed to be his as the servant.

And most of all, he missed Arthur. He wanted nothing more than to be back at Arthur’s side, sharing that silent sort of communication that they had developed years ago that allowed them to know exactly what the other was thinking with only a glance. He missed the banter, the childish bickering that had kept them both sane over years of strife and betrayal. He really hadn’t been away long, but it was the longest he and Arthur had been apart since Merlin had first arrived in Camelot.

When they’d parted ways at the campsite, Arthur had said they’d be in contact soon, but Merlin hadn’t gotten any correspondence from Camelot. It had only been a few weeks, though, so perhaps he just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Or, the more likely option in Merlin’s estimation, Arthur simply did not want any contact with him. The relationship between Camelot and Carthis was obvious and it was unlikely that either kingdom would renegotiate their stance, so really there was no reason for them to discuss it at all.

Merlin wouldn’t write to Arthur. There wouldn’t be any point, and Arthur wasn’t likely to want to hear from him anyway. That thought was a weight around his neck, dragging him down even as he struggled to keep his head high. Merlin had always valued the relationship he had developed with Arthur, and yet he had underestimated just how much it would hurt to lose it. But, no matter how much he wished he could just go back, he couldn’t have that anymore. Not only were they leagues apart, but his friendship with Arthur was surely damaged beyond all repair. Arthur would never trust him again, not after everything he had done, all the lies he had told.

That part of his life was over, the part where Arthur was his everything, and he had a new life to live now. So he turned over in bed and buried his face in the pillow, thinking instead of grain stores and sword stances.


	15. Chapter Fourteen

Merlin resisted the urge to adjust the circlet of gold where it sat on his head and made his fringe—his hair was getting long, he thought idly, and he should probably cut it sometime—stick to his forehead. It was a near constant struggle not to fiddle with the unfamiliar weight, but he usually managed to hold himself back, knowing that fidgeting was not dignified. Instead he drummed his fingers restlessly against the arms of his chair, quietly enough that it was not noticed by the man currently blathering on about something or other; Merlin had lost track a while back and was too bored by the speaker’s monotonous tone to catch up with what was being said.

The council meeting seemed to have been going on for a very long time, but in reality it had probably only been an hour or so. No wonder Arthur had never chastised him for being distracting; he had _needed_ the distraction simply to stay awake. Merlin did not have a completely impertinent manservant to make faces at him. Sadly, Raime was quite well behaved in situations such as these, standing quietly with his pitcher and keeping Merlin’s cup full of unfortunately-watered wine.

Sir Gerund cast Merlin a sideways look which was probably meant to remind him to pay attention but wasn’t very effective when he was so obviously suppressing a laugh. Gerund had been a godsend in these meetings over the last week and a half. Normally he would not be required to come to these things, having more important things to do such as overseeing the training programs for both the secular knights and the mages, and coordinating all the patrols and guard rotations, but he had taken to attending them anyway.

He sat by Merlin’s side, providing moral support and giving advice. He kept up a whispered commentary throughout, reminding Merlin of all the statistics that he had crammed into his head recently or providing pertinent background information if he got lost on one point or another. Merlin was still hesitant to speak up in these meetings, unsure if he was truly well enough informed to give an opinion, but Gerund had a knack for drawing the topic around to something with which he was comfortable and giving him an in. Merlin was grateful for it, but it was becoming less necessary as time went on and he grew more confident with his knowledge of the kingdom and its condition.

One of the younger council members—Lord Kendell, if he was not mistaken—had spent the last half hour or so prattling on about something that was probably important. Road maintenance, maybe. Merlin kept thinking that surely he would be finished any time now, but he seemed to have only just hit his stride. Merlin leaned back in his chair with a heavy internal sigh of boredom and tried to don that expression that Arthur had perfected, the one that looked politely interested while covering up a complete disconnect from reality. He had almost managed to slip off into a daydream when the door to the council chambers opened and a young page entered, holding a scroll in his hands. He handed it to one of the councilors, bowed gracelessly in Merlin’s general direction, and scurried from the room. The councilor unfurled the scroll and scanned it.

“A missive from Queen Annis of Caerleon, my Lord,” he announced. Merlin smiled at the name; he quite liked Queen Annis, in spite of the army that she had brought to their doorstep and the fact that she had thought him a juggling fool. She was a strong and practical woman, one who was unafraid to admit to her mistakes, and she had become one of Camelot’s greatest allies. “She wishes to reaffirm the treaty that Queen Eleanor made with her late husband.”

“Of course,” Merlin said immediately. “Send a response straightaway saying that I would be happy to discuss it with her at her earliest convenience.”

“On that note, there is still the message from King Olaf to respond to,” a councilwoman spoke up, “concerning the disputed territory near the ridge on the northwestern border. And it may yet be prudent to make contact with Lord Bayard about a renegotiation of the trade routes there. If tensions with Mercia grow any further, we may need to close them down entirely.”

“Have we heard anything from King Lot?” Merlin put in. The councilors exchanged looks.

“I do not believe so, sire,” Lord Kendell said with a frown. “Why do you ask?”

“We should reach out to him, offer him aid in exchange for a binding peace treaty or his support in future endeavors,” Merlin proposed. The strategy had occurred to him the day before when reading over some information on harvests for the last few years, and on the spells regularly used to strengthen the crops. No one seemed particularly thrilled at the idea, though. Merlin wasn’t surprised. They had had some run-ins with the late King Cenred that put their kingdoms at odds, but there had been little to no contact with King Lot over the years since he had taken Cenred’s throne.

“Why would we do that, my Lord?” someone asked. “Escetia has been no friend to us.”

“That is true. But Escetia’s harvest was not very successful this year, nor the two years previous,” Merlin pointed out, sitting forward in his seat and leaning his elbows on the table. “Her people are struggling to make ends meet. They are having trouble just feeding their children, let alone paying their taxes to the crown. The royal coffers are all but empty, with little hope of refilling them. Carthis, on the other hand, has not had a crop failure in decades. If we offer our assistance to King Lot in the form of blessings on his fields and spells to promote growth, then he will be in no position to refuse our generosity. He will not be able to risk turning away a potential ally as powerful as Carthis, not when he is struggling to maintain his hold on the throne.”

There was a scoffing noise from somewhere down the table. It was no surprise to identify the skeptic as Lord Ellison. The majority of the council had been warming up to Merlin over the last week or two, their initial wariness fading as they observed Merlin’s actions and did not find them lacking. Granted, he had yet to have his authority tested and he had not yet encountered any real crises, but they had to admit that he was handling himself better than they had expected, less like a country bumpkin and more like a Lord. Ellison and Tennison were the only ones still holding a serious grudge against him. A good deal of Ellison’s ire, Merlin thought, came from jealousy, as his tongue had become sharper and his dissention louder since he’d seen Merlin accomplish the impossible on the mage’s training field.

Ellison might be prone to fits of immaturity and pettiness, but Merlin didn’t have to rise to the bait. Instead he bit his tongue and turned to face Ellison, determined to address whatever issue he would come up with as calmly and as reasonably as possible despite the Lord’s argumentative attitude.

“Do you have something that you wish to say?” he asked politely. Ellison sat up straighter, glancing around at his peers before looking Merlin boldly in the face.

“I just don’t think that you know what it is you’re proposing. I mean, diplomacy is hardly a skill that is often taught to _servants_ ,” he sneered with a laugh that his father shared.

Merlin clenched his jaw until a muscle jumped in his temple. Really, he was surprised that it had taken this long for mention of his past to be made. He had been waiting for this moment for a week and a half, since the morning after his coronation when he had told Raime of his former employment. But just because he had expected this did not mean that he would stand for it.

“You forget yourself, Lord Ellison,” he said sharply. “And you forget that you are speaking to your king.” Ellison stopped laughing then as a hush fell over the room but he did not drop his gaze. Instead he raised his chin defiantly, but Merlin was not intimidated by it in the least. “My years as a servant may not have fostered diplomacy,” he said, “but they did teach me humility and respect. Lessons which you, Lord Ellison, have clearly yet to learn.” Ellison flushed, a scowl darkening his face, but Merlin did not give him time to retort.

“The way in which I made my living does not make me any less than you. A man’s worth is not defined by his rank or the number of titles which he has to his name, but by his actions. I have known men of common birth who were more noble than any knight, and I have known knights who did not deserve the honor that had been bestowed upon them. Yes, I spent eleven years as a servant, but that has no bearing on whether or not I am fit to rule this kingdom.

“And if you still worry for my qualifications, then fear not. It is not as if I was just a kitchen wash boy,” he continued into the silence. “I served a Crown Prince for seven years and a King for four more, all while apprenticed to a physician and scholar. Do not think me unfamiliar with the ways of court simply because I was not raised to them. I have spent the last eleven years immersed in the running of a kingdom. I am not nearly as uneducated as you seem to think. Your noble upbringing does not make you in any way my superior, and I will not be looked down upon in my own court. Not even by you, cousin.”

There was a shocked murmur from those gathered and Ellison stared at him for a long moment, his brow furrowed and his expression unreadable. Merlin realized that it was the first time that he had acknowledged their relation. Well, the first time that he had acknowledged it out loud. He had thought about it a great deal since he had gotten to Carthis and realized that he had kin whom he had never known existed. The silence stretched on for an uncomfortably long moment, but Ellison did not respond.

“You said something earlier, my Lord,” a portly council member with a mustache who had never shown a preference either way as far as Merlin was concerned spoke up carefully, as if afraid to break the tense moment, “about gaining King Lot’s support in future endeavors. What future endeavors might you have in mind, sire?”

“As was mentioned previously, the tensions with Mercia are escalating,” Merlin said, finally tearing his gaze away from the still-inscrutable expression of his cousin. “If we do end up at odds with Bayard, it might be prudent to have an ally whose aid we can call upon should we need it.”

“I hardly think we would,” Lord Melbourne said. “Carthis has never been so outmatched as to call for help.”

“It is always better to have allies and not need them than to need them and not have them,” Merlin reasoned. “Either way, Lot would be in our debt and we could collect in any way that we see fit.”

“I could have the Court Scribe draw up a missive for you, sire, if you wish,” Lord Kendell offered.

“See that he does. I will review it tomorrow. Council dismissed.” There was a great clatter of wood on stone as chairs were pulled back from the table, but Merlin spoke over it. “Lord Ellison, if I could have a word?” Ellison, in the process of following his father out of the chamber, stopped at his call. He exchanged a few terse words with Lord Tennison and then turned back, his expression politely blank. Merlin waited until all of the other members of the council had cleared out of the room before he spoke.

“Ellison, I—”

“You called me cousin,” Ellison cut across him. Merlin sighed, moving to run his fingers through his hair only to find a crown in the way. He dropped his hand and began twisting the signet ring around his thumb instead.

“You are my kin, Ellison,” he said, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable but determined to press on anyway. “And I don’t know about you, but that means something to me. I always wished that I had a bigger family when I was growing up, but it was just me and my mother. Aside from her, you are the last family that I have. You are really the only tie that I have to this kingdom. And I don’t want you as my adversary.”

Ellison did not respond, crossing his arms over his chest and looking elsewhere. Merlin wished that he would look him in the eye; maybe then he would be able to see that Merlin was sincere in this, that this was not just some political ploy, but Ellison seemed determined to avoid his gaze.

“Look,” Merlin tried again. “I know that you and your father do not believe that I deserve the throne or that I will be able to rule well, and I understand that; believe me, I have doubts enough for all of us. But I assure you that I will rule better if I have the full support of my council.”

Ellison sucked his lips in for a moment, thinking.

“The people do seem rather enamored of you,” he said, the admission sounding like it had been dragged out of him against his will. It made Merlin smile tentatively; to hear that from someone like Gerund or Mordred was nice, but there was always the possibility that they were just being reassuring. Coming from someone who was so dead-set against him, it was almost guaranteed to be the truth.

“Really?” he asked.

“Though I can’t imagine why,” Ellison grumbled. Merlin bit his lip to keep from laughing; Ellison sounded a great deal like a young Arthur in that moment, trying his damnedest to keep from sounding like he had just complimented Merlin. They stood in awkward silence for a minute, avoiding each other’s eye and trying to think of something else to say. Merlin got the feeling that pushing the issue would do more harm than good at this point.

“Well, just think about it,” he said awkwardly. “You are my cousin. And I would like to have the opportunity to know you as such.” Ellison looked like he might be chewing on his tongue. He gave a jerky nod and then turned abruptly on his heel, disappearing out of the council chamber with his head down and his shoulders tense. Merlin watched him go, hoping that he had made enough of an impression to change his cousin’s mind.

 

\--

 

Arthur spent much of the days following his return to Camelot shut up in Gaius’ chambers, pestering the old man with questions and being in the way and generally interfering with his daily business. Gaius answered all of his queries willingly enough, though sometimes with a touch of trepidation or exasperation depending on the topic and the time of day and how long Arthur had already been underfoot. He had been especially reluctant to speak of Merlin’s many accomplishments over the years. He seemed to feel that Merlin would rather tell Arthur all of that himself.

However, as Arthur pointed out to him, Merlin was not there to tell him and it was unlikely that he would be returning to the kingdom any time in the near future. If Arthur was to get the whole story, then he would have to do so through other means, and the only informed source left to him was Gaius himself. And so Arthur was slowly being filled in on all that had happened in his kingdom over the last eleven years without him ever being aware of any of it.

With every story, every revelation, every tale of danger and selflessness, Arthur’s respect for Merlin grew. The man had singlehandedly done more for him and for his kingdom than anyone else could ever claim to have done, even the most accomplished and dedicated of his knights, and he had done it all without the slightest expectation of appreciation or acknowledgement. He had held himself back, smiling and laughing self-deprecatingly whenever Arthur had insulted him or half-jokingly called him useless or a coward, all the while knowing that he was the most powerful person in the entire land.

He could have done anything. He could have torn the kingdom to the ground with a single word or less and had all of that wealth and power to himself, but he had stayed his hand and knelt on hard floors and darned Arthur’s socks. Instead of taking all that he was fully capable of taking, he had risked his life to protect those who would have killed him in return for his kindness.

True, Arthur’s pride did take a bit of a beating upon realizing exactly how many of his supposed triumphs could not actually be attributed to him at all, but he couldn’t bring himself to be angry about it. Nor was he surprised by the altruism of Merlin’s actions; if there was anyone whom he would have expected to be content not to take credit for his own heroic deeds, it would be Merlin, and he could not begrudge him the gratitude he was due for his efforts.

Arthur was humbled, so incredibly humbled, by the extent of Merlin’s dedication to him. It had always been evident in his actions but it was even more staggering in light of what he now knew. He had never done anything to deserve the sort of faith that Merlin had in him, but he found himself becoming more and more determined to make himself worthy of it. He would not let Merlin down, not after everything the man had sacrificed for him and his kingdom.

There were some holes in Gaius’ narrative of the time Merlin had spent there, moments in which he was holding something back, when there were things that he would not divulge, and Arthur had a feeling that there were even more trials in Merlin’s past, ones that were personal enough to make Gaius uncomfortable with revealing them without Merlin’s permission. It saddened Arthur greatly to know how much Merlin had undergone in the pursuit of his safety, to hear of how Merlin had suffered in silence, bearing his grief without a word of comfort. Arthur did not think that he would have been able to stay so strong for so long without the sort of support that Merlin had constantly offered to him.

He had always known Merlin to be a much stronger man than most would have given him credit for. He was resilient and resourceful and practically fearless in the face of any danger no matter how great, a steady and unwavering source of support and comfort for all of his friends, and deceptively intelligent when he felt like showcasing it. But Arthur would never have guessed, not even with everything that he had learned thus far from Gaius and from Merlin himself, that he would be the most powerful magic user _ever to walk the earth_. Gaius had informed him that, according to the prophecies, it was Merlin’s destiny to become the greatest sorcerer to ever exist, past, present, or future. That Merlin was _Emrys_. And Arthur had heard that name once before.

“Guinevere,” he called across the room, sprawled out as he was over his bed and too tired from training to bother with getting up. “You know that I have been speaking with Gaius recently?”

“If by ‘speaking with him,’ you mean ‘holing up in his chambers for several hours a day,’ then yes,” Guinevere responded dryly, coming to lean against the post at the foot of his bed and crossing her arms over her chest. “It must be fascinating or you wouldn’t spend nearly so much time in there and leave me to deal with the council alone.”

“You’re handling them well. And I have learned a great deal,” Arthur said. “Do you remember when we took back the citadel from Morgana?”

“Which time?” she asked in an innocently curious voice that was belied by the wry half-smile on her lips. Arthur made a face at her, not needing the reminder of how many times he had been ousted by his erstwhile friend and sister.

“The second,” he specified grumpily. “When she was allied with the warlord Helios.”

“I remember,” she said. “What does it have to do with your talks with Gaius?”

“Do you remember what Morgana said to me, just before she moved to attack, before she realized that her magic wasn’t working properly?” Arthur asked, pushing himself up to lean on his elbows. Guinevere’s brow furrowed in concentration as she looked back over the memory, searching for that moment. She shook her head. “She said, ‘Not even Emrys can help you now.’”

“You’re right, she did,” Guinevere said, gripping the bedpost and biting her lip as the memory came back to her. “What could she have meant by that? We never knew anyone named Emrys.”

“Apparently we did,” Arthur corrected her with a significant look. It took a moment for her to make the connection, but then she gasped.

“You don’t mean to say—” she started in astonishment. “But…but Merlin was there, wasn’t he? He was standing right next to you. It couldn’t possibly be him.”

“It is, according to Gaius. Morgana knows of Emrys, but she does not know of his true identity. She only knows what she has heard, namely that Emrys is destined to be her doom.”

“But what does that mean? That name, Emrys,” Guinevere asked. Arthur sat up entirely, scratching at the back of his head; he was still a tad bit uncomfortable with the thought of being the subject of a prophecy, any prophecy, much less one with such monumental and far-reaching effects. That his life could be even more predetermined than it already had been, royalty as he was, was galling, and that the task set was even more daunting than simply being king scared him more than he would like to admit. He reached for Guinevere’s hand and tugged her down onto the bed with him, pulling her close against his chest.

“It is apparently a term of Druidic prophecy,” he said with a put-upon sigh, resting his chin on the top of her head. He explained about all that Gaius had told him, about the incredible importance of the destiny the two of them shared, and about Merlin’s immense power. Guinevere sat quiet in his arms for a while, taking it all in.

“So Morgana knows all of this except for the fact that Emrys is Merlin?” she asked, and Arthur nodded. Guinevere chewed on her lip again, looking worried. “Do you think that she’ll find out it’s him? You said that the Druids know of his identity, that they recognize him. Surely there will be plenty of people of Druidic heritage in Carthis. What if word gets back to her?” Arthur tightened his hold on his wife, clenching his jaw against the sudden rush of fear brought on by her question; he had not considered that, that Merlin might be in danger from Morgana should knowledge of all of this reach her ears.

“We will just have to hope that it doesn’t,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “Or, otherwise, that he is powerful enough to hold his own against her. And from what I have been told, he is more than her match. Legendary power, remember? He’ll be fine, I’m sure of it.”

“Have you heard from him at all?” she asked, worry still heavy in her tone. It had been weeks, after all, and she knew as well as he did that no correspondence had come from Carthis.

Arthur had been waiting for the official notice of Merlin’s coronation, for the usual attempts of a new monarch to renegotiate old treaties and form new alliances, but there had been nothing. Merlin hadn’t reached out to Camelot, to _him_. Arthur didn’t know if it was because Carthis’ court was unwilling to treat with Camelot at all due to her stance on magic, or if the silence was because Merlin was still hurt by Arthur’s reaction. From all of Gaius’ stories, it sounded as though Merlin’s loyalty to him was fairly unshakeable, and backed up by prophecy no less, and so the former reason seemed more likely, but it didn’t stop Arthur from wondering if Merlin was angry with him. He would a bit longer to let Merlin get settled into his role.

“I’m sure we’ll hear something soon,” he told his wife instead of voicing his thoughts. “In the meantime…” He placed a quick kiss on Guinevere’s cheek, then another just behind her ear. A third kiss, this one on her neck, brought a smile to Guinevere’s face and she pushed at him playfully. He grinned into her skin and trailed his lips back across her jaw until he could claim her lips. They were jolted apart only a moment later by an abrupt knock on the door, which opened without waiting for his call.

“My Lord, you are needed immediately in the throne room,” a small page called urgently, sounding a little breathless, as if he had run all the way here.

“Why? What’s happened?” Arthur demanded, disentangling himself from his wife and reaching for his sword.

“They’ve caught a witch, sire.”

Arthur’s insides froze solid.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

The kingly duty which Merlin enjoyed the most was holding open audiences. It was the only time that he was able to interact directly with the people of the kingdom for which he was now responsible. Granted, it could get a little bit tedious at times solving other people’s problems for them, but it was worth it just to be involved in the lives of his citizens. There was something very gratifying about having a direct effect on his people’s lives. He preferred the immediacy of solving concrete problems over the more abstract political ones he dealt with in council meetings.

Merlin had long since abandoned his throne in his audiences, disliking the way it placed him above the people seeking his help, removing him from them even more than the honorifics did. Instead, he stood on a level with them, as Arthur had often done, making sure to look each and every one of them in the eye and actually listen to what they were saying.The people came to him with disputes over land ownership, with arguments over the calf of one farmer’s sow who had been impregnated by another farmer’s bull and which farmer had more of a right to it, with pleas for help from villages beset by raiders, with any number of small quarrels and petty disagreements. Merlin did his best to resolve them all as fairly as possible.

Sir Gerund stood by his side, returning to the advisory capacity in which he had served Queen Eleanor and giving his opinion whenever Merlin asked for it. Other councilors sometimes stood around the room as well, to observe, and Merlin did not hesitate to consult them if he felt that they would have a better idea of what should be done than he would. Lord Melbourne had warmed up to Merlin considerably after he had asked the councilor’s opinion on how to respond to a wizened old villager who could not pay his taxes due to having been robbed blind by his traitorous son-in-law.

Merlin adjusted his crown absent-mindedly as the last supplicant of the day was ushered from the throne room. He had promised to send a handful of knights and mages to the aid of her village, hoping that that would be enough to drive the raiders out. They had defended Ealdor from Kanen and his men with far less, after all. Merlin turned back to collapse into his throne, too worn out to care that it was less than comfortable, but he didn’t make it that far. Before he reached it, the door to the throne room was pushed open and a portly, well-dressed man stormed in followed closely by a pair of guards dragging a boy between them. They pushed the boy down to his knees before the raised platform of Merlin’s throne.

“What is this?” Merlin asked, bewildered. “What’s this about?” The boy was young, maybe fifteen years old, but he raised his head boldly in spite of the heavy hands pressing on his shoulders, keeping him down. The heavy-set man stepped forward, his nose firmly in the air.

“This boy is a _thief_ , my Lord,” he declared, pointing a thick finger in the boy’s direction. Merlin cringed internally; he had not yet had many occasions to preside over trials or pass sentence, but he already knew that it was not something that he enjoyed.

“And what was it that he stole from you?” Merlin asked; the value of the object taken was to be directly proportional the punishment, as per the laws.

“Two apples and a loaf of freshly baked bread, sire. Some of my finest,” the man said, his haughty tone making it sound as though these were priceless artefacts. Merlin raised an eyebrow at him.

“He stole food?”

“Yes, my Lord.” The man was obviously awaiting a harsh sentence, even though the value of two apples and a loaf of bread was so low that the punishment warranted by the law would be little more than providing repayment and receiving a slap on the wrist, maybe a few hours in the stocks at most. It wasn’t near enough to get the boy’s hand cut off, as more serious thefts would have been.

Merlin ignored the pompous merchant and climbed down from the dais once more, taking a closer look at the boy kneeling before him. His face was streaked with dirt, as were his hands, and his clothing was tattered and threadbare. He bore that pinched look of someone who had gone without sufficient food for a long period of time. He had no shoes on his feet. Merlin wondered if he owned any at all. Merlin turned to the guards still holding him down, which really was not necessary seeing as he had made no move to get away.

“Did he eat the food?” Merlin asked.

“Pardon, sire?” the guard said, confused.

“The food that he stole. Did he eat it? Or can it be retrieved and returned to its owner?”

“It was eaten, sire, but not by him,” the other guard explained. Merlin nodded, not at all surprised. He turned back to the boy, making sure to stand far enough back that he wasn’t looming over him, kneeling as the boy was.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Derrick, my Lord,” he answered readily. There was no guilt in his expression, but nor did he attempt to deny the charges or proclaim his innocence.

“Why did you steal from this man, Derrick?” Merlin asked, not unkindly, though he had a feeling that he already knew what the boy would say.

“I had no other choice, sire. I had to,” he asserted. “My parents are dead, and I got to look after my little brother and sister. They were starving, sire, and I couldn’t just sit by and let it happen. I tried to do it right, I swear I did. I tried to get a job, but no one would hire me. I know it was wrong, but there was nothing else for me to do. It was wrong, I know it was, but I’m not sorry for it.”

His jaw was set defiantly, his eyes blazing, though Merlin could see the slight tremor in his hands before he tightened them into fists. The poor boy was fighting so hard to hold himself together, to be brave for his siblings. Merlin knelt down before him, ignoring the scandalized noise the merchant made at seeing his king kneeling on the floor before a peasant boy.

“I understand, Derrick,” he said. “I have been in your shoes.”

“You have?” Derrick asked dubiously, eyeing his clothes, which were of expensive and brilliantly red material. Merlin chuckled a bit.

“I know that it may be hard to believe, but I was not always where I am now. This is a rather recent development, actually. I have known true hunger, like you. There were winters in my youth when I did not think I would live to see the spring,” Merlin confessed. “It was just me and my mother, and I would have done anything to provide for her. I would have stolen everything under the sun if I’d had to. But it didn’t come to that; we survived on the generosity of our neighbors. And I am happy to pass on that kindness to you.”

“Sire?” Derrick breathed with that timid sort of hope, not sure if he was truly understanding what his king had said. Merlin met his gaze and held it for a moment, thinking. Then he stood and turned back to Gerund, who was still standing on the platform by his throne.

“Sir Gerund, is there still a position open in the royal stables?” he asked. Gerund smiled at him knowingly.

“I believe there is, sire.”

Merlin nodded definitively.

“Tell them that their new stable hand will report to work in the morning,” he said.

“What?!” the merchant yelped indignantly. “Sire, I must object! I have been robbed by this ruffian and I demand recompense!”

“You will be reimbursed for your losses, I assure you,” Merlin said. “Out of my own pocket if need be.”

“My Lord, this boy is a thief. If you let him loose, he will surely steal again,” the merchant insisted.

“You’re wrong, sir,” Merlin told him, ignoring the way the merchant bristled in offense. “Derrick did not steal out of any spiteful inclination, but to feed his family. If he is given a steady income, then he will have no reason to do so again. This boy needs a helping hand, not a punishment. And I am glad to give it to him.” Merlin gestured to the guards and they released their hold on Derrick’s shoulders, giving the boy room to get shakily to his feet.

“Return to your family, Derrick,” Merlin said. “You will be expected at the royal stables first thing in the morning. Don’t be late; first impressions are everything.” Derrick beamed at him and turned to go. “Ooh, wait!” Merlin fished the purse of coins that he had been given from the royal treasury—far more money than he had ever had in his possession at one time—out of his pocket and counted out a few coins, which he then held out to Derrick. The boy looked from the coins being dropped into his hand to Merlin’s face with wide, disbelieving eyes.

 “Here,” Merlin said. “Buy yourself something to eat as well. You are all that your siblings have left. You cannot take care of them if you do not take care of yourself first.”

“Thank you, your majesty,” Derrick said fervently, clutching the coins to his chest. “Thank you, thank you!” He bowed low to Merlin, his eyes near to disappearing his smile was so wide. Then he turned and sprinted from the room, leaving behind a highly irate merchant, two vaguely confused guards, and a handful of speechless councilors. In the silence, Merlin counted out a few more coins, almost certainly more than the stolen food was worth, and handed it to the merchant without a word. The man took the coins, recognizing that the battle had been lost, and gave him a jerky bow before sweeping from the room as quickly as such a heavy man could.

“Are you sure that was wise, my Lord?” a wheezy older councilor with very few teeth left asked from the side of the throne room.

“Quite,” Merlin said. “The merchant got his money, the children got their food, that boy got a job, and the royal stables got a stable hand who will work his fingers to the bone in gratitude for the opportunity to be there. Everyone wins.” The councilor considered this for a moment, sucking his lips in over his gums. Then he nodded, seemingly satisfied with Merlin’s decision. Gerund climbed down from the dais to stand at his side as the remaining people trickled out of the room one by one.

“A just and merciful ruling,” he said as he came up alongside Merlin.

“Castigation will solve nothing if the root of the problem is not addressed,” Merlin said. “Fining him would only have increased his desperation and led him to steal again. There is no escape from hunger such as that, and there is no ignoring the pain of watching your loved ones wither away from it.”

“Were you really so hard off as a child?” Gerund asked with a frown.

“Growing up without a father has its consequences,” Merlin said softly. Gerund nodded sadly. Then he brightened a bit and clapped Merlin on the shoulder.

“You may not have known Balinor well, but I did. And he would have made much the same decision,” he said.

“You think so?” Merlin asked hopefully.

“Definitely. He would be so proud of you,” Gerund said warmly, and Merlin beamed at him.

 

\--

 

Arthur stood before his throne, never hating it more than in that moment. Before him, held tightly by two burly guards and surrounded by three more, was a little girl. She could not be more than ten years old, if that, and yet the guards and the handful of knights scattered around the edges of the throne room were all eyeing her with the same caution and wariness they would a wild boar about to go on a rampage.

Guinevere beside him had her hand over her mouth, horrified by what was happening, and Gaius stood off to the side with a painfully familiar blankness to his expression. The girl was not struggling. Instead she was limp in her captors’ grip, shaking fit to fall apart and with tears running down her face. Arthur could see where the tight hold of the guards was leaving red marks on her skin and it had to hurt, but she did not protest as they dragged her forward.

“What is the meaning of this?” Arthur demanded even though he already knew. “What has this girl done to deserve such treatment?”

“She is a sorceress, sire,” the guard on the girl’s left told him, his voice harsh, and he shook her. The girl whimpered but still did not speak.

“And what was her crime?” Arthur asked. The guards looked amongst themselves, uncertain.

“She committed acts of sorcery, my Lord,” the guard repeated as though this explained everything. Of course, under his father’s reign, it would have. But Arthur was not his father, not any longer.

“And what did she do with it? Whom did she harm?” Arthur clarified. The guards looked even more bewildered by this question.

“Well…no one, sire,” the guard on the girl’s right admitted. “But she—”

“I will ask you one more time,” Arthur said through gritted teeth with very forced patience. “ _What did she do_?” One of the guards from behind the girl stepped forward, sending a glance toward her. He looked a bit discomfited by the rough treatment, sorceress or not, and Arthur mentally thanked him for it.

“She saved a boy, sire,” he said. “He fell off of the roof of the baker’s hut. She used magic to catch him before he hit the ground.”

“He’s my brother!” the little girl cried, finally raising her tear-streaked face from the floor to look at him imploringly. “My brother! I couldn’t just let him fall. He would have got hurt, he could have died. I know it was wrong, but please, I just—”

The left guard shook her again, harder, and she fell silent with another pitiful whimper. Arthur stepped forward until he was stood directly in front of the man, closer than was probably comfortable, and he gave him a cold stare. The guard shifted anxiously, reading plainly his king’s displeasure. Arthur let him squirm for a moment longer before he turned to girl. He knelt down in front of her until he was on her level, ignoring the murmur of the guards and knights around him.

“What is your name?” he asked gently. The girl looked up at him slowly, disbelief etched all over her face. She stared at him for a moment, glancing up at the guards on either side of her in fear, fearing their retribution should she speak again. Arthur gestured for them to release their tight hold on her, which they did only reluctantly, still hovering over her in case she made to attack him. The girl rubbed at the sore spots on her arms; there would be bruises, Arthur was sure. It made his blood boil. No child should suffer such ill-treatment, no matter their supposed crime.

“M-Mary Lida,” she stammered eventually, her voice barely above a whisper. “My name is Mary Lida.”

“And how old are you, Mary Lida?” Arthur asked.

“I will be nine years when winter comes, sire.”

“Tell me what happened, Mary Lida,” Arthur prompted, keeping all his attention on the child before him instead of the crowd of suspicious and hostile figures around them.

“It was…it was my brother, Jacey,” she said immediately, desperate for him to understand. “You see, Father is sick and cannot work and Mother only makes so much. Jacey has to work too, and he was fixing the baker’s roof for him, but he slipped. He was falling, sire! I didn’t even mean to, I didn’t, I swear. I just wanted to keep him safe, and then he wasn’t falling anymore, he was just floating there. I didn’t do any magic, sire, I promise I didn’t! It just happened, I didn’t mean for it to. Please, he’s my brother!” She was getting more and more upset, her tears coming faster and heavier now. Arthur put a hand on her shoulder, feeling the raggedness of her breathing.

“I understand, Mary Lida,” he assured her. “You did nothing wrong.”

“My Lord, I must object!” the left guard said harshly, startling the girl. “She is a witch! She practices spells and enchantments! Magic is evil and—”

“Did she utter any spell?” Arthur asked, standing up to face him. “Did she speak words of magic in order to do what she did?” The guard mouthed at him soundlessly, taken aback at the question that had never been asked in such a circumstance before, but Arthur ignored him, turning to address the room as a whole. “How long does it take to become proficient in casting spells? How long must someone practice sorcery before she can be considered a sorceress? Because this girl has not had the time to _practice_ anything. She is a child.”

“My Lord—”

“This girl saved a life,” Arthur said. “If she had done so by any other mechanism, we would be praising her, not clamoring for her death.” Arthur looked around at all the stunned faces, meeting everyone’s eye. “You have a brother, Sir Roth, do you not?” he called, gesturing to an older knight, and again then to the guard who had looked sympathetic. “And you as well, Timothy? If your brother’s life were in danger, would you not sacrifice your own gladly? Would you not do anything to keep him safe?”

“I would, sire,” Timothy said fervently. “Anything, sire.” A beat later, Sir Roth nodded reluctantly.

“This is preposterous!” the left guard thundered, reaching for Mary Lida’s arm again. “Her evil actions have condemned her.”

“Her actions show only love and compassion for her family,” Arthur argued. “I see no evil in that. She did no harm to anyone.”

“The law states—”

“I cannot uphold a law that I know to be unjust,” Arthur stated.

There were a number of audible gasps and the guard reeled backward, looking nothing short of thunderstruck. Arthur held his ground against the shocked and disbelieving gazes, refusing to back down from what he had said. The law held that magic was evil, but Arthur had seen far too much proof of the opposite to be able to subscribe to that view anymore. He could not execute a little girl for her act of love, no matter what method she had used, and may the law be damned. Arthur knelt down in front of the crying child again, leveling the hostile guard with another look until he released her arm once more.

“Go home to your brother, Mary Lida,” he said gently. “You did a good thing, and I will not punish you for it. Go, tell your parents not to worry. No harm will come to you.”

Mary Lida stared at him through wide, wet eyes for a long second, hardly daring to believe what she had heard. Then she threw her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him over backwards, and hugged him tightly. The sound of swords being drawn echoed through the throne room and Arthur held up a hand to stop them in their tracks. He patted the child on the back and then pushed her away again. “Go on,” he said with a gesture of his head. She ran from the room, the guards too stunned to even think about stopping her, and did not look back. Arthur stood and turned to resume his throne, but he should have known better than to think this was over.

“My Lord, surely you aren’t going to simply let her go?” one knight asked in disbelief.

“Why not?” Arthur asked, resigning himself to defending his decision against pretty much everyone else in the room. He wished the Knights of the Round Table were there; their opinions carried a good deal of weight now that they had established themselves, despite their common blood, and they would have readily supported him in this. As it was, they were out on patrol and he would have to stand alone.

“Sire, just because she has not done anything to harm anyone yet does not mean that she never will,” the knight pointed out. “She will surely rise against you.”

“And why exactly would she do that?” Arthur queried, looking at the knight expectantly.

“She is a witch, sire.”

“Yes. And I could easily have killed her for it,” Arthur said. “But I did not. And that is something that will stay with her for the rest of her life. She will remember my mercy and she will be grateful for it. I spared her life because she had done something good. She will remember that as well, and she will continue to do good in appreciation of that.”

“Sire, you cannot just let her—”

“Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do,” Arthur said coldly, facing the left guard once more. He would need to find out this guard’s name so that he could make absolutely certain that he was sacked.

“Your father would never have—”

“I am not my father,” Arthur all but growled, his dark tone effectively silencing the guard; he was sick and tired of being compared to Uther. Once it had been a source of pride, but now it nearly made him ill to think of his father’s crimes. All of his life had been spent either trying to live up to his father’s legacy or being targeted by his father’s enemies. It was about damn time that people realized that Uther’s rule was over, and that Arthur could not rule the way he had.

“I am my own man,” he said, “and I make my own decisions based on the facts that I have before me. My father claimed that all magic is evil, but that girl showed no malice. What she did was an act of compassion. I cannot justify condemning all magic-users as evil when evidence of the contrary has been presented to me.”

“My Lord, her actions cannot be used to exonerate the rest,” a knight spoke up, trying to sound reasonable. “This girl may not have been malicious, but that says nothing about the rest of them. The acts of one individual have no bearing on the group as a whole.”

“Then why is every sorcerer tarred with the same brush as Morgana?” Arthur countered. “If one person’s actions cannot exonerate the whole, then why can another’s condemn them? Why are her actions more worthy of transference than Mary Lida’s?”

“But the law, sire!”

“ _My word_ _is law_ ,” Arthur said, his voice ringing with undeniable authority, and all protests were silenced. “I will not murder a child for her act of kindness, no matter what the law states. The letter of the law is not always absolute, nor is it just in every circumstance. From this day forth, I will do what I believe to be right. If a person’s only crime is possessing magic, if they have not wronged another person, then they will go free. Am I understood?”

No one responded. Everyone seemed to be too stunned to speak, all of them gaping at him with varying degrees of disbelief or outrage on their features. This would have a serious backlash, Arthur knew. Someone would inevitably call enchantment and he would have to find a way to convince them that he had not been ensorcelled, that this was his own decision made with a clear mind and his honest judgment.

He had not even realized that he had made the decision to change the law, but he had certainly committed himself to it now. It would not be easy. It could prove to be damn near impossible, but he would find a way. He could no longer stand by and allow his people to be killed for something they could not control, not with everything that he now knew to be true. He could not let good people, people like Merlin, live in constant fear of persecution.

“Understood, sire,” rang out a voice. Timothy, the concerned guard, was standing tall at the back of the room, paying no attention to the livid gazes that turned his way. Arthur nodded to him in thanks and Timothy smiled at him. There were murmurs of hesitant agreement from a handful of others around the room, those less vehement in their hatred of magic quailing under their king’s determination. That one guard looked more hostile than ever, an ugly scowl on his face, but he did not speak out again, obviously realizing that his king was beyond reason on this matter.

After a long moment of silence, Arthur barked a dismissal and people began filing out of the throne room, whisperings flying. The tale of what had happened here would be all over the town by nightfall, Arthur was sure, and through his kingdom and into others within days. He released a heavy sigh, the last of the tension draining out of his shoulders as the door to the throne room finally fell closed, leaving him alone with his wife and his physician.

“I am so proud of you, Arthur,” Gaius said, his eyes bright and a huge smile on his face. Arthur nodded, far too exhausted to feel pleased at the moment. Guinevere pulled him close and held him tightly against her, stroking his hair.

“I know how hard that must have been for you,” she said. “But it was the right thing to do. And Merlin would be proud of you too.” Arthur hugged her back, wishing that his best friend were here to see this, that Merlin could be by his side as he fought on behalf of magic. As Arthur fought for _him_.

“I hope so.”

“I _know_ so,” Gaius said.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

The bright afternoon sun beat down upon the training field, but Merlin didn’t notice it. He could hardly feel the warmth of it on his skin through the shimmer of his shield, which wrapped around him in a perfect dome of golden light. He had left Mordred on the other side of the field, working diligently to maintain a small square shield with one hand and knock back a straw dummy with the other. He was making great progress, head and shoulders above everyone else who had attempted to split their focus in the same way, but his success was nothing compared to Merlin’s. Now that Merlin had gotten the feel of it down, he had rapidly moved past having to concentrate on each spell consciously. Instead, he set the shield in place and held it there without any real thought at all, allowing his concentration to be better spent on attacking.

He was currently surrounded by opponents in the form of Sir Gerund, Sir Frederick, and a talented young woman called Lady Cecily. Merlin would admit to being surprised upon finding that—while the secular knights remained solely male—the mages of Carthis, like the council, did not discriminate based on gender. While there was not exactly a surfeit of female mages, the fairer sex was well represented in the kingdom’s fighting force. He supposed that it made a good deal of sense. In a sword fight, even if the level of skill is evenly matched, a woman might still be at a disadvantage because of her smaller stature and lesser physical strength.

Magic had proved to be an incredibly effective equalizer. In a duel of magic, the physical abilities of the participants had little to no bearing on the outcome of the fight. Morgana was a prime example of that, the most powerful magic-user—excepting Merlin himself, of course—in all the land. Cecily being a woman did not stop her from being a strong fighter, one who could give as good as she got on the training field and in heated battle.

Merlin narrowed his eyes at his three foes, all of them flitting around him as he held his ground in their midst. His left hand rested against the solid inside of his dome shield; he had found that not only did it keep his arm from getting tired, but it also provided him with a more stable connection for his magic and thereby reduced the amount of heed that he needed to pay to it. His other hand was spread before him as he shot spell after spell at his circling adversaries. They dove and dodged and zigzagged out of the way, all the while returning fire.

The blasts of magic that dissipated against his shield with little to no effect. Merlin could feel the others’ energy as it collided with his own, a meeting of like forces where one struggled to overcome another. It was a very different sensation from when his opponent used magic to manipulate the surroundings, such as when Sir Frederick had gotten particularly creative and decided to hurl one of the benches from the supply tables at him. That had felt much like a physical blow against a wooden shield, the familiar force and recoil. But the resilient, sensual slide of magic against magic was something else entirely and it made Merlin’s fingertips tingle and set his mind to racing when he had the time to think on idle matters such as that.

He certainly didn’t have the time now. Despite having been fending off three attackers for several long minutes now, Merlin’s only sign of fatigue or exertion was the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, and that was just as much from the heat of the day and the armour he was wearing as it was the effort that he was putting in. He had managed to knock Sir Frederick off his feet, but Lady Cecily was too fleet for him to get a hit on, and Sir Gerund’s quick reflexes and years of experience meant that he always had a shield of his own at the ready to counter all of Merlin’s attacks.

If Merlin wanted to win this battle without simply waiting for them to tire themselves out—which he could do without too much trouble, but that seemed lazy, uncreative, and unsatisfying all at once—then he would need to think of a different approach. With a wickedly excited grin spreading across his face at the chance to do something that he had been wanting to try out for a while now, Merlin hastily threw together a spell.

He was becoming quite adept at coming up with spells off the top of his head now that he had access to scholarly texts and lexicons of the Old Religion, his knowledge and understanding of enchantments and the theory behind them growing with every new spell he learned. Slowly, he sank down, trailing his left hand carefully along his shield so as not to lose contact with it, until he was knelt upon the ground. “Àhrère eorðan beneoðan min ealdorgewinnan,” he growled, lifting his right hand high and then slamming it down.

The very earth began to shake beneath him, a tremor spreading out to rock the land from where his hand connected all the way to the edges of the training field. He made sure to keep a careful hold on his magic, not allowing the quake to get too serious and risk causing real damage, but it was still enough to bring a look of near-panic to Sir Frederick’s face from where he was trying and failing to get to his feet. Lady Cecily lost her balance, toppling sideways and only just catching herself on Sir Gerund’s arm as the ground beneath them tried to buck them off.

When tiny fissures appeared between their feet and began to grow wider, branching off in all directions and threatening to open up and swallow them into the depths of the earth, Gerund hastily pulled out a white handkerchief from his pocket and waved it above his head, signaling their submission. The duel won, Merlin let his spells fall, wiping the sweat from his brow as he got to his feet again on the now steady earth.

“I still can’t believe that’s even possible, two spells at once, much less spells that absurdly powerful,” Lady Cecily panted, bending over for a moment to lean on her knees. When she stood up again, she was looking at Merlin with the same light in her eyes that Mordred often got. “You truly are Emrys, aren’t you?”

Merlin shrugged, too used to the treatment to bother with being embarrassed by it anymore. His legendary identity was common knowledge by now and it was not unusual for those of Druidic heritage to stop and bow to him whenever he passed them. One elderly man in traditional Druidic garb had even knelt to kiss the ground at his feet, despite Merlin’s uncomfortable protests.

He had tried to assure them that such displays were not necessary, but that had done nothing to curb their reverence. Finally he had had to give in. He let them bow and thanked them for their support. He couldn’t be too unhappy with the knowledge getting out since, though it put him on a bit of a pedestal for a lot of people, it had certainly made things easier with the council; the Druidic people were greatly respected in Carthis, by the landed gentry and the common people alike, and that they put their complete faith in Merlin was enough to convince several of the council members that they should do so as well.

“That is what they keep telling me,” Merlin said easily. Mordred appeared at his elbow then with a smile on his face and the thrill of exhilaration lighting his eyes. “How did it go with you?” Merlin asked him, glancing over to see that the straw dummy was in several pieces.

“Quite well,” Mordred answered breathlessly. “I managed to hold the shield for a while, a couple of minutes probably, and still produce a few other spells.”

“Well done, Mordred,” Merlin said genuinely, beaming back at him.

“Would you mind fixing that, Merlin?” Gerund asked with a nod at the field, which was a mess of crisscrossing crevices and raised mounds of earth. “I’d do it myself, but I don’t know if I would be able to, even if I hadn’t just expended all of my energy on your shield.”

“Oh! Yeah, sorry about that,” Merlin said sheepishly. He waved a hand at the field and it set itself to rights, the ground knitting back together and smoothing over until it was as if nothing had happened. He didn’t realize that he had not used a spell until he saw Lady Cecily shaking her head in awe. Apparently that was another thing that was rare and unexpected; for most, wordless magic only occurred under duress, when fear or rage or desperation lent someone unbelievable strength. But Merlin had been performing purposeful magic long before he had ever learned his first spell. It had just come easily to him, a conscious directing of power into a specific purpose, his magic bending easily to his will.

“I will never understand how you do that,” Cecily said.

“I still don’t understand it myself, to be honest,” Merlin admitted, “and I couldn’t explain it if I tried.”

“Well, you two should both throw in the towel for the day,” Gerund advised, clapping both Merlin and Mordred on the shoulder. “There is such a thing as overdoing it, even for the likes of you, sire.” Merlin laughed but conceded the point anyway.

With Mordred following along in his wake, Merlin led the way off to the armoury, intending to get out of his armour and back into normal clothes. Well, what counted as normal for him these days. He was getting more used to the fancy garments made of expensive materials, but he would still be more at ease in his old scratchy tunic and tattered neckerchief. Alas, appearances had to be maintained. And it wasn’t so bad. The regal apparel did its job of making him feel like royalty. As such, he was more comfortable wielding his newfound authority when he was clad in brocade and silk and with a crown on his head, and there much less likely to slip back into servant mode and do something that would cause him to lose respect in the eyes of his court.

“You really are doing well, Mordred,” he said as they reached the door to the armoury, releasing the fastenings of his armour with a mere flick of his wrist and a quick burst of magic in the way that he had always wished that he could have done with Arthur’s after training; those buckles could get really bothersome, especially when the metal was hot from being in the sun for so long. The slender pieces floated off of his body and piled themselves neatly on the table, where Raime would no doubt pick them up later for a good polishing and possibly a renewal of the protective spells by one of the armourers, though Merlin would probably redo them himself later on anyway just to be sure.

“Not nearly as well as you,” Mordred countered.

“Don’t ever compare yourself to me. You’ll drive yourself mad,” Merlin recommended with a huff of laughter. “And besides, you’re still more powerful than any of the people out there. Most of them could never achieve in their whole lives what you have in a few days. That’s something to be proud of. You know, I bet you could even manage that projection spell that Gerund showed me a few days ago, remember? The one where you sort of throw your spirit out of your body?”

Merlin shook his head, remembering the trouble that spell had given him. “Once my spirit’s out, I have no problem keeping it there; it’s the actual ‘disassociating the spirit from the physical body’ part that’s tricky for me. You might have it easier, since you were Druid-raised and all spiritual and whatnot.” Mordred didn’t respond to this and Merlin looked up to see the young knight watching him with a crease between his brows. “What?”

“Nothing,” Mordred said hastily. Then he hesitated. “It’s just that…well. You have been treating me…differently. Since we came to Carthis, I mean. Better. More like…like a friend.” He dropped his eyes to the floor, his cheeks touched with pink, and Merlin’s shoulders slumped.

“I know,” he said plainly.

The truth be told, he honestly _had_ come to think of Mordred as a friend over the last few weeks. Without Arthur there making the danger immediate, Mordred’s destiny seemed far off and much less worrisome. It was hard for Merlin to remember sometimes why it was that he had thought of Mordred as an enemy. It always came back, of course, but the way that Mordred laughed so openly and smiled so brightly now, away from the lies and the secrets and the threat of execution, made him seem so innocent, even more innocent than he had been as a child. He was a nice kid and Merlin couldn’t help but like him. And Mordred had acted as a friend would, long before Merlin had returned the favor. In a strange place and an even stranger circumstance, Mordred had become his support, the only person in the kingdom who truly knew him. It was hard not to trust him.

“Can I ask why?” Mordred said timidly. Merlin sighed.

“Mordred, I—”

But he had no idea what to say. How was he supposed to explain that he had mistrusted Mordred because he was destined to kill Arthur someday? He couldn’t simply tell Mordred his own future. Foreknowledge was incredibly dangerous, Merlin had learned that to his own detriment with the Crystal of Neahtid. In knowing of the events which had yet to come and trying to stop them from happening, he had in fact ensured that they would. He could not risk doing the same with Mordred, not when the stakes were so high, when it was Arthur’s life on the line.

He had tried to fight against what was destined once, back before Morgana had been lost to them. He had been warned about her future but he had refused to heed the warnings. Morgana had been his friend and he had held onto that, stubbornly continuing to trust in her until his willful blindness had put all of them in danger.

But then, he had not trusted in her as much as he could have done. He had refused to think ill of her, to accept that she would betray them, but there had been enough doubt caused by the dragon’s words that he had not confided his own secret in her. He had not comforted her as much as he could have, had not helped her in the way that she had deserved to be helped. He had lied to her and left her feeling different and alienated and so dreadfully alone that she had turned to Morgause for the solace that he had not provided. Merlin had pushed her away until she was too far gone for him to pull her back.

Could he have been doing the same to Mordred? In knowing of Mordred’s future, of the act that had not yet come to pass, and working to prevent it, was it possible that Merlin was only hastening Arthur’s death? It had happened with the Crystal and again with Morgana, with both of the prophecies self-fulfilling, the truth only becoming true because someone had known of it and acted to stop it from becoming so. But maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to be that way. Maybe this time, if Merlin did _not_ act upon his foreknowledge, did _not_ try to stop the future from coming true, it wouldn’t.

“Mordred, I’m sorry for the way that I treated you back in Camelot,” he said honestly, coming to his decision. “I was pretty awful to you, but I think that the time has come for you to know why.” Merlin sat at the long table and pushed his armour to the side, gesturing for Mordred to take the seat opposite. The young knight did so, looking at Merlin so earnestly that it made his chest ache with a sudden fondness. “Mordred, how many Druidic prophecies are you familiar with?” The young knight’s brow furrowed.

“I am afraid that my camp disbanded before the Elders could teach me all that they wished to about such things,” Mordred confessed. “My father would have continued my education himself, but…” He trailed off, his sad gaze falling to the table at the memory of the fate that had befallen his father at the hands of Uther. Merlin remembered it too, and it still sickened him, the lengths to which Uther had gone to eradicate a peaceful people who had done him no harm. He had robbed a child of his father, and had tried to rob him of his own life as well. Mordred had already suffered greatly for one so young.

“Arthur and I are not the only ones whose deeds have been foretold,” Merlin told him. “Morgana’s betrayal was destined as well. Kilgharrah told me very early on that she and I were fated to be enemies.”

“What did you do?” Mordred asked.

“I tried to maintain my faith in her as my friend,” Merlin said. “But I could not bring myself to trust in her completely. I lied to her. I did not tell her of my magic, and so she looked elsewhere for understanding and found Morgause instead. I treated her like my enemy and, in doing so, I forced her to become one. And I don’t want to do the same to you.” Mordred’s brow furrowed.

“What do you mean?” he asked falteringly, but Merlin could see that he already suspected the answer he would get.

“The prophecies mention you as well,” Merlin said, wishing that he did not have to tell Mordred this, to disillusion him so thoroughly; the awareness of one’s own fate was a terrible burden to place upon one so young, he knew that better than anyone. He had been living with the weight of destiny on his shoulders since he was Mordred’s age and younger, after all. “They speak of you and Morgana united in darkness. They say that you are fated to bring about Arthur’s death.”

It looked as though Mordred may have stopped breathing altogether. His mouth fell open in disbelief, but no sound came out. He shook his head, slowly at first and then more vigorously.

“No,” he breathed out. “No! I don’t want…I would never, I don—surely, you know that I—” He couldn’t seem to get his thoughts in order, half-formed denials and desperate pleas mixing together and tumbling out on top of one another. “I would never see any harm come to Arthur!” he finally cried, his eyes wide and bright.

“Not now,” Merlin conceded. “But that is no guarantee of the future.”

“Arthur saved my life!” Mordred argued. “He is a great king, the Once and Future King. He is the only hope for widespread peace. Why would I ever wish to see him dead?”

“I don’t know,” Merlin said. “But I have known of your fate for a long time, since you first came to Camelot as a child. It is my destiny to keep Arthur safe, and Kilgharrah told me then that if you were to live, then I would not be able to achieve my destiny. On the way to Ismere just a few months ago, I was granted a vision from a Vates in which you met Arthur on the battlefield and killed him. And then, who should we run into but you? Of course I didn’t feel that I could trust you.”

“But I don’t want to hurt Arthur,” Mordred said, near to begging and shaking his head fervently again. “I would give my life for him gladly, for either of you.”

“I believe you,” Merlin assured him, and he did. “That is why I’m telling you this, Mordred.” He leaned forward, his own desperation to avoid this fate lending urgency to his tone. “I pushed Morgana away. In trying to prevent her destiny, I caused it. I was well on my way to doing the same with you. I don’t want to push you away anymore, Mordred. I don’t want to give you a reason not to trust me. Whatever is destined to happen to turn you away from us, I hope that a true friendship without any reservations will be enough to counter it. This is a leap of faith on my part, and a dangerous one, but I am making the decision to trust you completely.”

“You can trust me, Merlin,” Mordred asserted. “Arthur will never come to harm by my hand, I promise, I swear it on my father’s grave.” Merlin studied his earnest face for a moment, seeing the desperation and the fear there, and he nodded.

“And I believe you,” he said again. Mordred took a great shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting tears. Merlin put a hand on his arm and gripped it tightly. “And I do consider you a friend, Mordred, truly. I have relied on your support a great deal in the past weeks.” Mordred managed a small smile, struggling as he was to regain his composure after such a devastating revelation. He swallowed hard and took a few deep breaths, pulling himself back together. Then he smiled again, more genuine this time.

“Thank you,” he said.

“What for?” Merlin asked; he had just told Mordred that it was his fate to be a murderer. That did not seem like something to be grateful for.

“For trusting in me, even when you have reason not to,” Mordred said. “It means more than I can say.”

“That’s what friends are for, is it not?” Merlin said with a smirk, parroting Mordred’s own words from the eve of Merlin’s coronation back at him. Mordred let out a shaky laugh, looking a little overwhelmed.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” he whispered. “Thank you, Merlin.” Merlin smiled gently and rose from his seat, pulling Mordred up with him. They were halfway to the door when a thought came to Merlin’s mind, pulling him up short for a moment.

“You called me Merlin,” he realized.

“Yes,” Mordred said confusedly.

“But there’s no one else here.”

“So?” he asked, sounding even more baffled.

“Well. Normally, you only call me Merlin when there are people around who don’t know about my magic or anything. Otherwise you usually just call me Emrys. In fact, you’ve been calling me Merlin for a while now,” Merlin pointed out wonderingly, not having appreciated that until just now. “Why is that? Why the change?”

“Oh,” Mordred said, shifting on his feet and looking a little bit embarrassed. “I guess because Merlin is your name. And because you were Merlin long before you were Emrys. That is who you are, the man behind the legend, so to speak. You are more than just your destiny. I realize that now.” A slow, genuinely happy smile spread across Merlin’s face; that was not a distinction that many people thought to make.

“Thank you,” he said simply. Mordred grinned back at him. Merlin slung an arm over his shoulders, a bit giddy with the thrill of camaraderie, the rush of confidence brought on by the sudden lack of mistrust. Before they could reach the door to the armoury, however, it was thrown open to bang loudly against the wall, admitting a young squire who was gasping for breath and clutching a scroll tightly in his fist.

“King Merlin, sire!” he panted urgently. “You have received an important missive!”

“From whom?” Merlin demanded, releasing Mordred and stepping forward to receive it.

“From the Lady Morgana. She seeks an audience with you.”


	18. Chapter Seventeen

“Mordred, fetch Sir Gerund. Bring him to the throne room,” Merlin barked, and Mordred was off immediately. By the time that he had rounded the corner out of the room, Merlin was already fully armoured again and strapping a sword around his waist. He swept past the squire, who handed him the scroll and fell in beside him, struggling to keep pace with his sovereign’s longer strides. The missive was a short one, saying only that she would be there within the hour, that she came in peace, and that she would speak with the newly crowned king on a matter of urgent business.

“How was this message delivered?” Merlin demanded, forming and discarding and reforming plans, his thoughts spinning at dizzying speeds.

“By raven, sire,” the squire answered. “Just a few moments ago.” He still had time then. Within the hour, she had said. Merlin handed the scroll back, uninformative as it was.

“Thank you for being prompt. You may go,” he said.

“Do you wish for me to summon the council for you, my Lord?”

“No, that will not be necessary,” Merlin said darkly. “I will deal with her myself.”

The squire bowed quickly and sprinted off ahead of him, undoubtedly to spread the word of what was happening. Merlin did not try to stop him or swear him to silence about what he knew; there would be no way of keeping it quiet once she arrived, and a little forewarning might help to prevent widespread panic if Morgana showed up in the courtyard. But he did not want the council on his back right now. He generally appreciated their help and their advice and he had a great deal of respect for the wisdom that their experience lent them, but none of them knew Morgana, not like he did.

The squire must have stopped off at Merlin’s chambers, because by the time Merlin reached the throne room, his manservant was waiting for him. Raime wordlessly handed him his crown, which Merlin donned, and then threw the heavy blue cloak with the enormous royal crest stitched intricately across the back of it around his shoulders, fastening it neatly and smoothing it down a few times unnecessarily.

He was worried, Merlin knew him well enough by now to see that clearly, but he did not try to offer advice or caution, for which Merlin was very grateful; he probably would have snapped at the boy in the mood that he was in, too tense to be anything but argumentative in these circumstances, Merlin only had to endure his manservant’s nervous fussing for a moment, wondering briefly if he had been this obviously anxious whenever Arthur had been doing something dangerous and deciding that he had probably been worse, before the doors were thrown open again, admitting Mordred and a very grim faced Sir Gerund.

“What’s happening?” Gerund asked, striding forward with a tight grip on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at a moment’s notice.

“Morgana is on her way,” Merlin told him. “She will be here within the hour.”

“I will call the guards and assemble the fighting force at once,” Gerund said promptly, turning to do just that, but Merlin shook his head.

“No,” he said firmly.

“You mean that you will see her?” Gerund asked incredulously.

“I will.”

“Are you sure that is wise, Merlin?” Mordred inquired, a trace of apprehension in his voice. He had a right to be nervous about meeting Morgana again, Merlin supposed; the last time Mordred had encountered her, he had betrayed her, quite literally stabbing her in the back in favor of protecting Arthur. It stood to reason that he would be a tad bit fearful at the prospect of retribution from one as powerful as her. Not that Merlin would allow any harm to come to him.

“I would rather face her directly than continue as we have been, with her skirting around the edges of the kingdom, always posing a threat but never actually engaging. It needs to end, one way or the other,” Merlin said. Gerund sighed but nodded in understanding. There was only so long that they could stall a confrontation such as this, and their time had run out. At least this way, Morgana was not coming as a hostile party, but as a supplicant in Merlin’s court. He would be in the position of authority and she would be the one at a disadvantage. He could ask for no better opportunity.

“As you wish, sire,” Gerund said with only a hint of reluctance, though he still sounded as though he thought Merlin mad for taking this path. “I will bring her to you directly.” He turned towards the door again, but Merlin called him back as something occurred to him.

“Sir Gerund! If you could, try not to mention my name in her hearing,” he said. Gerund gave him an odd look, but Mordred nodded in understanding.

“Why, may I ask?”

“Morgana and I have…a great deal of history. Much more than she knows, I’m afraid.” Merlin said enigmatically. “But she’s about to find out, and I fear what her reaction will be. I need to be there when she discovers my identity; no one else has a chance of containing her when she is truly angered.”

Gerund’s brow pinched and he shifted uncertainly on his feet, apparently torn between following orders and staying where he was. “You wish to see her alone?” he asked. Merlin nodded. Gerund’s hand clenched spasmodically around the hilt of his sword, a nervous gesture that Merlin had never seen from him before. “I do not believe that’s wise, sire,” he said. “You should have a contingent of guards at your back to—”

“That won’t be necessary, Gerund, I assure you,” Merlin said. “I have fought Morgana before and know myself to be more than her match.”

“I don’t doubt it, sire,” Gerund said, but he stepped forward, practically vibrating with tension. “But as your advisor and as your friend, I would be more comfortable if you had someone at your side. Just in case. I can help protect you.”

Merlin saw the tightness of Gerund’s features, the protectiveness that radiated from him, the near-desperation in the normally implacable man’s face. It was a moment before he could make sense of it and place it in the context of what he knew of Gerund. Then it became very clear and he reached out to put a hand on Gerund’s shoulder, making sure to look him in the eye.

“I am not my father,” he said softly. “I’m not Balinor.” Gerund slumped like a puppet with his strings cut.

“I should have gone with him,” Gerund said, his voice rough with long-suppressed emotion. “If he had told me he was leaving, I would have. I would have been by his side and no harm would have come to him.”

“You can’t know that,” Merlin said. “Some things are inevitable, no matter how much we wish it otherwise. And some journeys are meant to be undertaken alone.”

“I can protect you,” Gerund said, his lined face earnest. “I failed Balinor once. I cannot allow his son to come to harm.”

“You never failed him, Gerund. And you will not be failing me in following my orders,” Merlin said gently. “Your skill and wisdom and experience are invaluable to me, as is your support. But I can’t have you here now, not like this. Guilt and feelings of responsibility can make a man reckless and prone to taking unnecessary risks. I don’t need that.”

Gerund opened his mouth to protest but Merlin shook his head. “I’ll have Mordred at my back,” he said. “He’s got a clearer head right now, and he’s got his own history with Morgana. He knows her well. This is an old fight, Gerund, and one you have no place in. There is nothing you can do for me here.”

Gerund’s face crumpled, but it was only a moment before he drew himself back up to his full height. He granted Merlin with a low bow full of respect even as his eyes continued to betray his worry. It was a sign of Gerund’s respect for Merlin’s power and skill that he did not push further in an attempt to convince him to bring in a whole slew of mages for his protection; he knew well enough that Merlin was as capable as the lot of them together. There was nothing left but for him to follow his monarch’s command. He swept from the room with a swirl of his cloak.

“What are you going to say?” Mordred asked quietly once the door had shut with a bang, Raime slipping through in Gerund’s wake. Merlin shook his head.

“I have no idea,” he admitted. “I don’t know what there is to say at this point. She has become too volatile, too unpredictable.” He turned to Mordred, who looked a bit pale even as he gripped the hilt of his sword tightly. “You do not have to stay for this, Mordred,” Merlin offered, even though he’d told Gerund he’d have Mordred as his backup. “If it comes to violence, I would not see you get caught in the crossfire.”

“I will stay with you through anything, Merlin,” Mordred said resolutely, the picture of determination and faithfulness. Merlin smiled at him, inordinately grateful that he would not have to face this completely alone. He crossed the throne room to stand before the brightly colored windows, Mordred falling in behind him without a word. His mind was curiously blank now compared to the swirling maelstrom that it had been before.

The thought of facing Morgana ought to scare him, he thought. She was an immensely powerful sorceress and incredibly dangerous, ruthless and vindictive in a way that he never would have expected when he had first met her. She had been so kind back then, spitfire and rebellious but unfailingly compassionate in all of her dealings. Everything had gone so wrong since then. Merlin looked out over the courtyard, distorted and mottled with colors as his view of it was, and watched the people going about their day, unknowing of the conflict that was about to take place.

He wanted to strategize, he wanted to plan out his next move, but he found that he couldn’t. He had no way of knowing what Morgana’s reaction would be, not with how unstable she had become in the last few years. There was nothing for it but to wait until she arrived and see how it all would play out. He did not have to wait long.

It seemed like much less time than it had to have been, but the door to the throne room came flying open and he heard footsteps cross the threshold, two sets of them. He did not turn around, but he noticed that Mordred was no longer at his shoulder. The young knight must have retreated to a safe distance, for the moment at least. There was no need to anger her from the start with his presence.

“The Lady Morgana to see you, sire,” Gerund announced stiffly. Merlin could hear the strained wariness even in his tone, could picture the tension in ever line of his body, ready as he was to spring into action to defend his sovereign the second the known threat made any move against him.

“Thank you, Sir Gerund,” Merlin said, but he still did not turn. “You may go.” There was a moment of hesitation, a pause as Gerund fought down his protective instincts. Then more footsteps rang out as the mage exited the throne room, the large double doors creaking shut behind him. They were alone now, the three of them. Merlin heard Morgana’s lighter steps as she approached him, the clack of her heels against the stone floors echoing up to the cavernous ceilings, so much taller and more spacious than those in Camelot.

“I am grateful for this audience, my Lord,” she said courteously, the accented cadence of her voice, so achingly familiar, bringing back floods of fond memories that made Merlin screw his eyes up against the ache of nostalgia and regret. “I would apologize for missing your coronation, but I’m afraid it was a little short notice.”

“It was all a bit rushed, wasn’t it?” Merlin said, a small half-smile stretching his lips at the understatement. He turned to face her. “Hello, Morgana.”

She was as different from her old self in appearance as she was in character. Her hair, once a waterfall of sleek black waves, was now a mess of tangles and curls piled haphazardly on the top of her head and pinned there to keep it out of her face. The black lace of her dress was torn and dirty whereas before she had taken pains to keep her brightly colored garments in perfect condition no matter the circumstances, the consummate highborn lady.

Upon catching sight of his face, or maybe even recognizing his voice, her cold eyes, usually so shrewd and calculating, widened in shock. She took a faltering half-step backwards, reflexively reaching for the wrist that had once borne the intricately wrought healing bracelet gifted to her by her sister. It had been said to ward off nightmares, though Merlin knew that it had helped her to suppress and control the prophetic visions that plagued her in her sleep. It was no longer there, but the meaning of the unintentional gesture was clear.

“You are not dreaming, Morgana,” Merlin said, moving to face her in the middle of the room. “And even if you were, would that make it any less real?” He could hear her teeth click together as she clenched her jaw, her face hardening as she snapped out of her daze of incredulity.

“ _Merlin_ ,” she spat. He did not bother responding. She strode toward him, practically snarling, but he held his ground. “You lied to me!”

“Don’t take it too personally; I lied to everyone,” he said coolly. He wondered distantly where this aloof callousness was coming from. A way to deal with the stress, he supposed, to hide his uncertainty. But it seemed to make Morgana very angry indeed.

“You’re a sorcerer,” she said accusingly.

“Warlock, technically, but we don’t need to get into the semantics.” The distinction was not lost on her. Sorcerers were taught, they needed to be trained in order to utilize the potential for magic that they possessed. Warlocks, on the other hand, were like witches in that their power was innate. Their magic developed naturally, without any choice, and it needed to be _controlled_ rather than _developed_. Merlin had been through much the same struggle that Morgana had, albeit considerably earlier. And he had done nothing.

“You could have helped me. I was so scared and so confused and you could have told me that I wasn’t alone,” she said, and Merlin could hear the sting of it beneath the anger of betrayal. He nearly winced, nearly gave an outward sign of the crippling regret he still carried for that decision, but he managed to hold his expression steady; he could not afford to show weakness, not now.

“I tried,” he said instead. “I sent you to the druids so that they could—”

“And then you lead Arthur right to us,” she growled. She seemed to realize what it was that she had said and her furious expression took on shades of bewilderment. “How could you have followed him like you did?” she demanded. “A Pendragon! You should have been fighting with me, not with him. He is the reason that people like us are ostracized, murdered in their beds, hunted down and slaughtered like animals,” she said, stalking toward him, her eyes alight with righteousness.

 “That was Uther’s doing. Arthur is a good man,” Merlin said.

“Then why are you here?” she shot back. “Why aren’t you still in Camelot?” He did not answer, swallowing hard around the ache of homesickness, and she smiled vindictively, knowing that she had hit a sore spot. “He cast you away, didn’t he? When he found out. He couldn’t stand to be near you, couldn’t stand to have a _filthy traitorous sorcerer_ in his kingdom. How did you even make it out alive?”

“Arthur is not his father,” Merlin gritted out, clenching his fists at his sides to keep from lashing out at her. Her words stung far more than he liked to admit. Arthur may not have tried to kill him, not really, but he had made it clear that Merlin was no longer welcome in Camelot, and that hurt just as much. But he would not rise to the bait, no matter what Morgana threw at him or how close to home it hit. “If anyone could have changed his mind about magic, it would have been you, Morgana.” She scoffed at him, an ugly sneer taking over her beautiful face.

“Right. As if he wouldn’t have strung me up at the first hint of magic,” she scoffed. “He is no better than Uther.”

“You’re wrong!” Merlin said steadfastly. He stepped forward to face her more fully, but the movement meant that Morgana caught sight of the young knight who had been lurking half hidden in the shadows behind the throne. Her eyes widened once more, manic fury overtaking her features again at the sight of her betrayer, and the floor beneath their feet gave a slight tremble.

“ _You!_ ” she shrieked, sparks of magic flying from her fingertips as her hold on it slipped. Mordred flinched away, but then raised his chin defiantly, as if angry at himself for being so cowardly, and moved forward to stand boldly at Merlin’s side. Morgana advanced on him, stopping just short of invading his space in earnest, her hands curled into claws at her sides with small glowing balls of energy collecting in her palms. She didn’t even seem to notice them, but Merlin did, eyeing her warily. “You traitorous little _worm_. I saved your life and you betrayed me for the likes of _him_!” She was nearly spitting in her anger, the window panes rattling in their settings.

“Arthur saved my life as well, if you’d remember,” Mordred pointed out, taking a step back to put space between him and the sparks Morgana was emitting. “He had as much a part in it as you did.”

“You would side with a Pendragon over your own kind?” she shrieked, looking quite mad in her rage. “I would have given you anything. And you stabbed me in the _back_!” With a wordless cry, she threw up her hand and sent a jet of fire roaring at him. Before Mordred could even comprehend the flames rushing toward him, Merlin had thrown up a shield. The attack dissipated against it, leaving Mordred unharmed, though a bit shaken, and Merlin fuming.

“You have gone too far, Morgana,” he thundered, striding toward her with his cloak billowing out in his wake and energy crackling around him nearly palpably as his magic raged with him, driving her back with the sheer force of its presence. “You invade my kingdom, you threaten my Lords, you attack my knights, and still you have the audacity to ask for my support?”

“You betray your kind, Merlin,” she screamed. “You and Mordred both. You should be clamoring for Arthur’s blood as he is for yours. Camelot has brought nothing but pain and suffering for those like us, and it deserves to be destroyed.”

“I will not allow Arthur or Camelot to come to harm, not by your hand or any other,” Merlin vowed.

“You would defend him after he’s turned against you?” she asked disbelievingly.

“I will protect Arthur as I have always done, as I am destined,” Merlin said, fierce in his loyalty.

Morgana’s lips curled up in a snarl again, but then she froze, as did all the chaos her uncontrolled magic wrought. Something in Merlin’s words seemed to have struck her. She stared at him for a disconcertingly long moment, her expression stuck halfway between derision and dawning comprehension, her feverish gaze fixed unblinkingly on his as her thoughts whirled. He saw the moment she drew her final conclusion, her eyes flicking to Mordred for the briefest of seconds. Mordred shifted closer to Merlin, his stance protective. That was enough to convince her.

“No,” she whispered, a kind of frail uncertainty making its way across her features. “No, you couldn’t be.” She did not say it out loud, but she did not need to.

“I may have been a little hard to recognize in that form, but I’ve been told the resemblance is in the eyes,” Merlin said evenly.

“Emrys?” she said, a mere breath.

“That is the name given to me by the Druids,” Merlin said, pulling his magic around him like a mantle and allowing it to shimmer visibly, sparks of gold hanging in the air; there was nothing wrong with a little intimidation factor in situations such as these. He was the most powerful magic user to ever exist and he relished the flicker of fear that crossed behind her eyes in that moment. But she pulled herself back together quickly, masking her trepidation with bravado in the same way that Arthur always did; they were more alike than either of them would ever admit.

“The Cailleach was an old fool,” she jeered, “to think that you would be my end.”

“You would do well to heed her words, Morgana,” Merlin warned, but she was smiling now, a manic sort of thing that was rather frightening to behold, especially as there was no obvious reason for it.

“You cannot stop me, Emrys,” she said, triumph in her voice though she had won no battle. “Camelot will fall to me yet.”

“I will not allow you to—” he began, but Morgana cut him off with a cackle of insane laughter, looking quite unhinged in her sudden glee.

“Ah, but you will, Emrys! Arthur will heed no warning from a traitor like you. And, you see, Camelot is not the only kingdom at stake anymore, is it?” Merlin’s heart turned to ice in his chest as Morgana devolved into wild laughter again. Through his panic, he did not hear Morgana’s transportation spell until it was too late to stop it. With a rush of wind and another shriek of mirth, she was gone.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

Arthur exhaled heavily and scrubbed at his face with his hands as the doors to the council chambers closed behind the last of his councilors. It had already been a very, very long day and it wasn’t even time for lunch yet. The last few days had been difficult to say the least. Camelot had just enjoyed three remarkably peaceful years. Now, after his scandalous outburst over the little girl that had been brought before him for sentencing as a witch, the whole kingdom was in an uproar. Some still thought that he had been ensorcelled by some ambitious sorcerer—some even thought that little Mary Lida had done it herself—and others were more cautiously open-minded. Lord Farnham in particular was being stubborn about the whole thing, the old goat, dead set on holding to Uther’s beliefs.

But Arthur held firm on what he had said when he pardoned the child, that he could not uphold a law that he no longer believed to be just. He did his best to back up every statement he made with facts or examples, but he was hard pressed to do so without revealing everything that he knew about Merlin. Merlin was his primary example after all, the one who had changed his mind in the first place, not little Mary Lida. But he doubted that making that fact known would increase his chances of convincing the council. They had all known Merlin as his idiot manservant, and hearing that he was a sorcerous Dragonlord who was now ruling over a powerful kingdom would horrify them even more than Arthur rebelling against the common opinion of sorcery.

He sunk down at the Round Table, very aware of the empty seats all around him. Merlin had sat at his right hand, he remembered, when they had first found the old stone table in that abandoned castle. He himself had indicated that Merlin should take that seat, admitting through that gesture what he had had so much trouble saying out loud, namely that Merlin was his closest friend and his most trusted advisor. Merlin had never gotten the chance to take that seat again, not after they had won the citadel back from Morgana. Arthur had let Merlin get shunted aside and replaced, pushed back to stand in the shadows with the other servants when he had deserved such better treatment. Arthur was vaguely ashamed of having allowed that to happen, and he had been even before he had known everything that Merlin had done for him over the years.

How much he wished for Merlin to be seated at his right now. Arthur could really use his advice in this situation. Or just his support. Merlin had always been good at cheering him up and forcing optimism on him even when it made no sense to be optimistic. With the enormous changes Arthur was trying to make to the very foundation of his kingdom, he wished that he had Merlin to reassure him, as the man had always done, that what he was doing was just and good. But he did not have that luxury. He had to stand on his own feet and hold his head high, knowing in his heart that this was right. And it _was_ right, he had no doubt of that anymore. Getting others to see that was the hard part.

He wondered if it was too soon to send a diplomatic envoy to Carthis. He wasn’t sure he had enough of the council’s support to even suggest it. If he moved too quickly, people like Lord Farnham would start throwing around accusations of sorcery again and insist it was all a trap to kill him and doom the kingdom to eternal damnation or some such rot. No, it was probably safer to hold off on any actual contact between the kingdoms until he had a hold on the situation here. As it was, it was just too precarious to rush things, no matter how much he wanted to see how Merlin was faring. Arthur was just about to push himself up again and head for his chambers, hoping that Guinevere would be willing to give him a massage or something to help him relax, when a figure appeared out of thin air at the other end of his council table. A very familiar figure. Well, sort of.

Merlin looked different, so different. His hair was longer, Arthur noticed, just by a little. It was long enough to curl slightly at the ends now, shading his eyes a bit where it was flattened down by the golden circlet on his brow. That was certainly new, though he shouldn’t really have been surprised by it. Merlin was clad in chainmail and armour, all of it sleek and glittering and looking far too thin to withstand any sort of attack but which Arthur realized was probably reinforced with magic.

His time in Carthis had done him well. Merlin looked good, less skinny than he had when he had been in Camelot. He stood tall with a sort of confidence that Arthur had seen only a handful of times before, usually in crises when Arthur himself had been all but useless with doubt and self-recriminations. Those were the times when Merlin had pulled him up and set him back on his feet, telling him in no uncertain terms that he was going to be the greatest king Camelot had ever seen. He had always seemed so strong in those moments. Now, clad in full armour and with a jeweled sword resting comfortably on his hip and a long blue cloak swirling around his ankles, he didn’t simply look strong. He looked like a warrior. He looked like a king.

Arthur was too taken aback by the fact that a man that he had not seen in nearly two months, one who was so very different and yet somehow exactly the same, had just magically appeared in his council chamber to actually respond in any way. But Merlin didn’t wait for him to speak first. Instead he strode forward, urgency in his steps even as he bit his lip and avoided making eye contact.

“Arthur,” he said breathlessly. “I’m sorry; I know that you probably don’t want me here. But I’m not really here. Well, not _here_ , here, I’m actually still in Carthis. This just a projection, and I know that it’s still illegal, but there was no other way for me to contact you in time. If you’ll just hear me out for one second, I’ll lea—” The words filtered slowly into Arthur’s brain until he realized that Merlin was apologizing, that he thought that Arthur was still angry with him, that Arthur wouldn’t want to see him.

“No, Merlin, it’s alright,” he said quickly, standing up to face him properly. Merlin stopped babbling, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“B-but,” he stammered, “it’s…it’s magic.”

“I know,” Arthur said. “And it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

Merlin mouthed at him, looking nothing short of taken aback. It made Arthur’s chest hurt to realize that Merlin had spent this entire time honestly thinking that Arthur hated him. He nearly smacked himself; of _course_ Merlin felt like that, with the way he had behaved before Merlin left. Merlin had always feared that Arthur would never forgive him, and no matter that Arthur had come around rather quickly once he reached Camelot, Merlin hadn’t been given reason to think otherwise before they’d separated. Arthur should have tried to make contact since then, should have sent him a letter to tell him that he had come to his senses, that he wasn’t angry anymore. He should have apologized properly.

“But…” Merlin tried to say something else, but nothing came out of his mouth.

“Merlin, I am so sorry for the way I reacted,” Arthur said, seizing the opportunity that had presented itself. He would be damned if he let Merlin go another moment without knowing how much he regretted his actions, and how thankful he was. “You have been nothing but loyal to me in all the time I’ve known you, and I treated you horribly. You may have been dishonest, but no lie is enough to warrant what I did. You didn’t deserve that.” Arthur stepped around the table, hesitating. He felt like if he moved too quickly Merlin might bolt. “Since you left, I’ve been talking to Gaius, and he’s told me everything that you’ve done for me, for Camelot. There are no words to express my gratitude to you, Merlin. I owe you everything. You are my truest friend, and nothing will ever change that. Not even magic.”

Merlin gaped at him, his mouth hanging open. Arthur wasn’t sure that he had ever seen Merlin struck dumb for so long. Arthur waited anxiously for Merlin to respond, to either accept his apology or deny it. He would not blame Merlin if he turned him away, not after what he had done to him. But even just seeing Merlin after so long, speaking to him, was like a breath of fresh air. He had not understood quite how much he had missed his best friend. A big part of Arthur wanted to beg Merlin to come back to Camelot, to take his place at Arthur’s side again, but he would never do it; Merlin had his own kingdom now, and Arthur understood that it was both a blessing and a curse. He would never ask Merlin to abandon his own people, no matter how much he missed having him there in Camelot.

Abruptly, Merlin was gone again, just vanished without so much as a sound. Arthur blinked dazedly, wondering wildly if he had gone mad and imagined the whole thing. But then there was a gust of wind and a swirl of blue and Merlin was back again and throwing his arms around Arthur’s neck, nearly knocking him over in the process. It took Arthur a second to respond, confused as he was, but he wrapped his arms around Merlin’s waist and returned the embrace just as tightly. Arthur could feel wetness soaking into his tunic from where Merlin had his face pressed into his shoulder, but he didn’t care; he wasn’t exactly dry-eyed himself, though he held the tears in pretty well. Eventually Merlin pulled away, wiping at his eyes in embarrassment.

“Still such a girl, Merlin,” Arthur groused, but his petulance was lost behind the uncontrollable grin on his face. Merlin huffed a laugh and then sniffed and adjusted his coronet where it had been knocked askew. Arthur cast around for something to say into that uncomfortable silence that always followed emotional moments. “You, er…you look good,” he said gruffly with a gesture to the cape. “The color suits you.” Merlin glanced down as if he had forgotten what he was wearing.

“Oh, yeah. All the blue is a little disorienting. I’m still used to everything being red,” he admitted. More awkwardness ensued as they both shuffled their feet and avoided eye contact for a moment. Then Merlin’s head snapped up.

“Bloody hell!” he yelped, startling Arthur with his word choice as much as his volume; it wasn’t often that Arthur had heard Merlin curse like that. “I almost forgot the whole reason I came here! Arthur, you’re in danger.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asked, mirroring Merlin’s now grave expression.

“Mo—” but he stopped, biting his lip. “You’ve been talking with Gaius, you said?” he asked. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“Yes.”

“And he told you everything?”

“With the exception of a few personal things that he wouldn’t reveal without your permission, yes.” Merlin gave him a sideways glance, but nodded.

“Then you’ll know that my presence here has been the reason that Morgana could never take and hold the citadel,” he said. Arthur nodded easily, no longer upset by the fact that Merlin was behind the majority of triumphs that were attributed to him by most. “She came to me earlier today. Well, she came to hold an audience with the new King of Carthis, not knowing that it was me. She wanted my support in taking Camelot. Obviously, when she saw that it was me, she realized that if I’m in Carthis, then I’m not _here_ anymore.”

“Oh no,” Arthur breathed, dread settling in the pit of his stomach.

“She’s coming for you,” Merlin said.

 

\--

 

Arthur sent for the inner members of the Round Table immediately, the original members that he trusted implicitly. Merlin waited while he spoke to the guard outside the council door, sliding into a state of shock. He could not believe that had just happened. Arthur had apologized, a million times more genuinely than he had immediately after the fact. Arthur had thanked him. Arthur had hugged him. Well, _he_ had hugged _Arthur_ technically, but Arthur had hugged him back. He could not remember a time when Arthur had hugged him. Arthur didn’t hate him for what he had done, for all the lies he had told and the secrets he had kept. He simply couldn’t believe it. But he could, because Arthur was taking him seriously, more seriously than he would have done before all this mess, was heeding his warning without a second thought.

Gwen was the first of the group to arrive at the council chambers. She let out a squeak of surprise when she caught sight of Merlin, her hands flying to her mouth as if she could not believe what she was seeing. Then she beamed at him, her smile lighting up her entire face. She sprinted toward him, all queenly decorum forgotten, and flung herself into his arms. He caught her easily and spun her around in the air, his grin so wide that it made his cheeks hurt, and she laughed and slapped his arm until he set her back on her feet. Merlin didn’t release her though, hugging her even more tightly.

“Oh, Merlin,” she said, pulling back to look at him with overly bright eyes. “Look at you! How have you been holding up?”

“I’m alright, Gwen,” he said, a little overwhelmed by the outpouring of affection and concern; he had always been a bit overwhelmed when Gwen’s motherly instincts kicked in, just as he was when his actual mother fussed over him. “It’s…different, certainly. But I’m doing fine, all things considered.” Gwen beamed at him and hugged him one more time.

“I knew you’d do well, Merlin,” she said into his ear.

“I missed you so much, Gwen,” he whispered back. “And I’m so sorry, for everything. I wanted to tell you, honestly I did—”

“Hush, Merlin. There’s nothing for you to be sorry about, absolutely nothing.” She held his face in her hands, making sure that he met her gaze. “We love you, Merlin. We all love you. And nothing could ever happen to change that.” Merlin had to fight back tears again, overcome with gratitude and affection. This was what he had missed most about Gwen, what he had feared he may have lost because of all his lies: her warmth and her compassion and the unconditional love she offered so freely to everyone she knew.

“Yes, yes, everyone loves everyone,” Arthur drawled from where he was leaning on a pillar with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the reunion with a soft smile that was quite at odds with his tone.

“You!” Gwen said, rounding on him and placing her hands on her hips, raising her eyebrow threateningly. “You apologized properly?”

“Of course, I did, Guinevere,” Arthur said, sounding scandalized at the implication that he wouldn’t. “I’ve been waiting for two months to apologize properly! You think I would just forget about it now?”

“Alright, I was just making sure,” Gwen said, putting up her hands in defeat. She opened her mouth to tease Arthur further, but was interrupted by the door to the council chamber being pushed open again.

“Merlin!”

“Gaius!” Merlin shouted gleefully. He nearly knocked the old man off his feet with the force of his embrace.

“Merlin, my boy! How did you get here?” Gaius asked, laughing at his erstwhile ward’s enthusiasm but patting him on the back anyway.

“Transportation spell,” Merlin said.

“And you’re still standing? Even someone as powerful as you should be at least a bit winded,” Gaius pointed out.

“Oh no, it’s great, look! Me and Kane—that’s the High Priest, he said that he worked with you a long time ago, remember him?—we developed this thing a few weeks ago, it’s fantastic. Here, look here.” He pulled the pendant from around his neck and placed it in his guardian’s hand, hardly pausing to draw breath he was so excited to share this. “It’s a transportation crystal. Well, technically, it’s three crystal fused together, but whatever. It’s a receptacle for energy. You can store all the magic needed for the transport in here ahead of time so that you don’t tire yourself out so much with the journey that you can’t do anything once you get where you’re going.”

“That’s brilliant, Merlin,” Gaius exclaimed, examining the pendant closely. “Are these runes along the edge?”

“Yes, they were Mordred’s idea, actually,” Merlin said brightly. “To stabilize the crystals so they don’t explode from all the power I put in there. I’ve got enough for probably five or six transportation spells in there right now, and I think I might be able to get it to hold more if I tweak the runes a bit.”

“Absolutely brilliant,” Gaius said again. “Quarts and agate, I see. How did you counteract the agate’s tendency t—” The door flew open once more to admit the knights, all of whom froze in the doorway when they saw who was inside. Merlin bit his lip, suddenly very conscious of the last time he had seen these men, on the other side of a clearing, most of them too stunned and disoriented by the revelations to do anything but stare at him. They were staring at him now too, but it was more in surprise than anything else. Gwaine came around first.

“Merlin!” he shouted. Immediately Merlin found himself swamped on all sides by knights, being hugged and slapped on the back and having his hair ruffled as much as it could be with a coronet in the way. He was inundated with apologies and declarations of gratitude and compliments and questions, but they didn’t wait for him to respond to any of them, instead manhandling him into a seat—the one at Arthur’s right hand, he noticed. That alone nearly brought tears to his eyes yet again; that seemed to be happening a lot lately.

Finally, things settled down. Once everyone had taken his proper seat, with Merlin on Arthur’s right and Guinevere on his left, everyone turned to face them, all seeming to sense the somberness that underlay the joy of Merlin’s sudden appearance. Arthur looked to Merlin for him explain.

“I guess you’ve figured out that this isn’t purely a social visit,” Merlin said, wishing that he had more time to catch up, to reconnect with his friends, to revel in the fact that _they didn’t hate him for what he had done_ , but that was not an option right now.

“What’s going on, Merlin?” Gwen asked.

“Morgana,” Merlin said simply. Gwen gasped, Gaius looked stricken, and Gwaine let out a string of coarse swear words that he otherwise never would have uttered in Gwen’s presence. “She knows all. And worst of all, she knows that I’m no longer here. Camelot is practically defenseless against magical attack without me, and she fully intends to take advantage of that fact.”

“How did she find out?” Elyan asked.

“Ironically enough, she came to Carthis to seek my aid in destroying Camelot,” Merlin told him. “A magical kingdom—one which had already denied her aid once before—coming into new leadership was ripe for the picking. Or at least that’s what she thought. Imagine her surprise when she found me.”

“Bet she didn’t like that at all,” Gwaine said.

“Not hardly.”

“How long do we have?” Leon inquired.

“I don’t know. Not long, I would guess. Days at most,” Merlin said. “We do have a certain advantage, though.”

“What’s that?” Percival asked. Merlin grinned, still feeling the elation of being proven wrong, of being accepted, of being forgiven. It was dizzying.

“Morgana will expect to catch you unawares,” he said. “She thinks that you would never take the word of a filthy traitorous sorcerer like me. Her words, not mine,” he tacked on quickly when it looked like everyone was going to start protesting at once. “She will not expect you to be forewarned, or at least not to heed the warning, and she will certainly not expect you to have an ally in Carthis.”

“Will your people follow you in this?” Arthur asked dubiously. “Will they come to the aid of Camelot, of all places?”

“I think they will. But even if they don’t,” Merlin said resolutely, “I will be at your side. I will stand alone if I have to.” He would bring an army to bear against Morgana if there was an army willing to be brought, but it was not essential. He was the one destined to be Morgana’s end. He was the only one with the power to defeat her. Even if his people did not rise to the call, if they refused to ally themselves with Arthur because of his father’s deeds, Merlin would fight with Arthur. He would always fight for Arthur.

“You won’t have to,” Arthur said. “You will never stand alone, Merlin, not again.” He caught Merlin’s gaze and held it, his eyes blazing with a devotion fierce enough to rival Merlin’s own. It was staggering to see it there, to realizing that Arthur was _seeing_ him at last. And not just as a friend, but as an equal. It was more than Merlin had ever dreamed. He looked around the table to see the same expression mirrored on the faces of all those seated there. These were his friends, his true friends. And they would fight for him.

“What do you propose we do, Merlin?” Gaius asked.

“I will need to speak with my council to know anything for sure. But I have a few ideas.”


	20. Chapter Nineteen

“You propose that we do _what_?”

Merlin sat at the head of the long table, the members of his council ranged along the sides. Mordred, Sir Gerund, and the High Priest Kane were there as well, and a few other higher-ups in the fighting force whose input would be appreciated. Currently, most of them were gaping at him in unflattering disbelief. It was Lord Melbourne who had spoken so incredulously, and Merlin turned to him.

“Morgana has made her intentions clear,” Merlin said. “She intends to make another bid for the throne of Camelot, and I would not see it done. I wish to go to King Arthur’s aid.”

“My Lord, surely we should focus on maintaining our own borders,” Lord Kendell said. “If she has made insinuations against this kingdom, as you claim, then we should not spread ourselves thin in such a way.”

“We will not neglect our own defense,” Merlin assured him. “But neither are we her primary target. Her focus will be on Camelot, and Camelot has no line of defense against magical attack, not like we have.”

“I fail to see why this should involve us at all,” another councilor spoke loftily. “Whatever misfortunes befall Camelot is hardly any of our concern. Camelot has been no friend to us.”

“Perhaps not in the past, but that may very well change in the future,” Merlin said. “I have spoken with King Arthur, and he—”

“You would treat with a Pendragon?” Lord Melbourne demanded, sounding horrified at the very prospect. “He is the reason that magic is vilified throughout the land!”

“That was Uther’s doing. And Arthur is not his father,” Merlin insisted. He was getting very tired of saying this; how long would it be before people stopped foisting Uther’s crimes onto his son?

“And yet he continues to persecute practitioners of the Old Religion!”

“Not any longer,” Merlin said, his heart swelling with joy and pride, still hardly able to comprehend the enormity of what Arthur was doing back in Camelot, the legendary change that he was effecting there. It boggled his mind to think that his dream, the dream that he had nearly given up as impossible, was coming true. Arthur had accepted him fully, he had forgiven him for everything, and he was making the kingdom safe for him. For _him_ , Arthur had said so. He was doing this for Merlin, and for all those like him. So that he would never have to fear for his life again. “Arthur is his own man, ten times the man Uther ever was. He has recognized his father’s mistakes, and his own, and he is working to rectify them.”

“He is legalizing magic?” Lady Penbrook asked, her eyebrows rising in surprise.

“As we speak.” There were murmurs around the table, some of disbelief and skepticism and others of astonishment and delight. Merlin continued, pressing his advantage. “Arthur is willing to extend a hand of friendship to Carthis. He would like to open negotiations for a binding peace treaty between our two kingdoms, and safe trade routes as well. But we cannot treat with a kingdom that has been ransacked and overthrown. Camelot is in desperate need of our assistance in this matter, and I would give it.”

“What sort of aid do you propose, sire?” Lady Penbrook asked readily.

“Morgana herself is a formidable opponent, but we don’t know how large a force she has behind her,” Merlin said, voicing his biggest worry at present.

Morgana by herself would prove a challenge for even a dozen average sorcerers, but Morgana with an army at her back would be a much more pressing concern. She was more likely to have a band of mercenaries hoping for coin, disgruntled sorcerers looking to get payback at the world, and people too frightened to _not_ follow her. Even if her force was large, it wouldn’t be unified and it certainly wouldn’t be loyal enough to fight to the death.

“I would send three battalions of mages,” Merlin said. “One to create and hold a warded perimeter around the citadel and two for deployment throughout the secular army primarily as a defensive line for those without magic. And then one battalion of secular knights to supplement the existing fighting force in Camelot.”

“What do you know of the terrain there?” another Lady asked, leaning forward to address him from halfway down the table. “Is the layout of the citadel conducive to a fire fight, or is it too close quarters for open battle between magic users?”

“The castle there is sma—”

“You can’t _possibly_ be serious?” Everyone stopped speaking abruptly and turned to look at Lord Tennison, who had stood up from his seat and was glaring around at them all.

“Have you something to say, Lord Tennison?” Merlin asked through gritted teeth, knowing that he was going to regret opening this door; while Lord Ellison had been surprisingly docile as of late, ever since Merlin had appeal to him on the basis of their kinship, his father had remained as vitriolic in his opposition of Merlin as ever. If anything, he had gotten worse, apparently trying to make up for his son’s concession by being twice as antagonistic.

“Surely we aren’t going to allow an untried serving boy to lead us into battle?” Tennison asked the council with a spiteful laugh. That finally did it. He had been trying Merlin’s patience for a long time already and this comment, this slur against his competence now of all times, caused the previously fraying rope that was Merlin’s control to snap entirely.

“How many battles have you faced, Lord Tennison?” he asked, his voice dangerously subdued.

“I beg your pardon?” Tennison asked, sounding affronted by the question. Merlin pushed himself to his feet, noticing that the councilors on either side of him leaned back as far as they could in their chairs as if to get out of the line of fire. He really must have looked menacing to have elicited such a reaction, but he did not care. In fact, he was glad for it. If there was ever a time to assert his dominance, this was it, and he was all too happy to put Tennison in his place at long last.

“How many battles have you faced?” he repeated. “What great deeds do you have to your name that give you the right to look down your nose at me?” Tennison’s already ruddy face flushed a darker red as he swelled indignantly, but Merlin did not allow him time to retort, all of the resentment that came from being patronized and belittled for so long finally coming to a head and spilling out at this man, this dreadful man, who had worked so hard over the last two months to make his life a living hell. He stalked forward until he stood directly before Lord Tennison, bearing down on him and using his greater height to his advantage.

“I have survived more battles in the last eleven years than this entire kingdom has seen in over a century,” he said coldly. “I have fought trolls and griffins and questing beasts and sidhe. I have destroyed two immortal armies singlehandedly. I killed the High Priestess Nimueh with a single blow. I defeated the immortal spirit of Cornelius Sigan and held audience with the Fischer King himself. I alone among mortal men have survived the touch of the Dorocha. I have wielded the Cup of Life and held the power of Life and Death in my hands. I have seen the land of Avalon and glimpsed the future in the Crystal Cave. I have faced Morgana in battle and walked away the victor. Tell me, Lord Tennison, do you still think me _untried_?”

Not once did he raise his voice, but the room around him was deathly silent. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Lord Tennison had paled considerably, his eyes widening progressively with every extraordinary feat that Merlin described. Merlin waited for him to say something in return, to ridicule him or to find something in all of that he could disparage, but the Lord was, for once, at a loss. Merlin stayed as he was, challenging the Lord to speak out against him now, and Tennison’s face grew progressively darker again, a flush suffusing his cheeks and his gaze quickly becoming mutinous; apparently Lord Tennison did not take kindly to being humiliated.

But Merlin did not care; he had spent long enough holding his tongue. He was a king and he _would_ be treated as such. He had been through too much in his relatively short life to be treated as a novice. Dismissing Tennison from his thoughts as the man had initially dismissed him, Merlin turned to face his council, sure to meet the eyes of each and every man in the room before he spoke again with an authority that he had never expected to feel so deeply in his bones but which seemed so right here, with the magic of his ancestors seeping into him from the very stones beneath his feet.

“I may not have been a knight,” he said in a voice that was both ordinary and commanding, “but I have faced more trials than any man I know and come out the other side unscathed. I may have been a servant, but that does not mean that I am not battle-hardened. I am as much a warrior as any of you. And you would do well to remember it.”

“What would you have us do, my Lord?” Sir Frederick asked, stepping forward from the edge of the room with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“You will fight for me, Sir Frederick?” Merlin asked.

“I will follow you anywhere, sire,” he responded immediately, an expression of fierce devotion on his face.

“As will I,” Sir Gerund said, moving to stand by Sir Frederick’s side. As one, the rest of the knights and mages present moved forward, standing at attention. Merlin nodded to each of them in turn, his heart pounding in his chest. These were his men, he realized. These men and women were loyal to him and him alone and they were willing to give their lives for him. They would rely on his leadership in the battle to come, their lives would be in his hands. And he would not let them down.

“Kane,” he said and the High Priest stepped forward. “Is it possible for the Perimeter to be made impassable?”

 

\--

 

Merlin sat up straighter in his saddle as the cry went up, the red-clad guards racing along the battlements in a near-panic at the sight of his blue and gold banner. Gerund and Mordred held steady at his back, all three of them keeping their gazes forward as they waited for the gates to be opened for them. There was no doubt that they would open, even if Carthis was not on the best of terms with Camelot; a delegation from a foreign kingdom, even an unfriendly one, which contained royalty was to be treated with the utmost respect until an openly aggressive gesture was made. When the King of Carthis showed up at the gates of Camelot and requested an audience, it would be granted.

It felt a bit silly to be riding in for an audience with Arthur when he had just spoken to the man a few hours ago, but some things had to be done in the proper fashion. Merlin had returned to Carthis in the same way that he had left and had spoken to his council, ensuring that he would have their support in this endeavor. And now that he had convinced them that his plan was sound and that they would benefit from taking this risk, here he was again. Another transportation spell—this one considerably more powerful, as it was used to convey three people and their horses, but still well within his means with the aid of the crystal pendant that he still wore around his neck, revitalized on a regular basis to make sure that he was never without a means of travel—had carried them in the blink of an eye a distance which would have taken them two days at least to travel by mundane methods.

The gates swung outward to admit them despite the openly distrustful glowers that the guards were sending their way. Merlin ignored them and led his party into the city proper with all the dignity afforded him by his station, his mages following in his wake and keeping a watchful eye on the crowds that were beginning to gather as the news of their arrival spread like wildfire.

It took a long time for the first inquisitive murmur to pass through the throng of people as he passed; Merlin had expected it to happen sooner, but he realized that by now he was probably nigh on unrecognizable as the cheeky, ungainly former manservant of the king. But someone finally made the connection, and she whispered it to her companion, who gasped it in the ear of the man next to her, who exclaimed it aloud, and soon the entire crowd was scrabbling to get closer, to get a better look and make absolutely sure that they weren’t mistaken in what they thought they were seeing.

Merlin, Mordred, and Sir Gerund ignored the masses, keeping their gazes determinedly forward as they neared the courtyard. There were a number of knights waiting for them on the stairs to the castle, each and every one of them with his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it at a moment’s notice. Not that a sword would do much good against magic users as powerful as the three of them, but the knights of Camelot had never seemed to grasp that concept, always happy to ride out against sorcerers with nothing to counter their magic. It was not the brightest method, but Merlin wasn’t about to complain right now.

He dismounted his horse and handed his reins wordlessly to a flabbergasted stable boy with whom he had played dice in the tavern once a few months before. He kept his head high as he came face to face with an older knight, one of Uther’s most loyal and one of the ones who had never warmed up to him as Arthur’s servant; his lack of propriety and his open familiarity with the prince had seemed to be a personal affront to the man. This revelation seemed to be even more offensive.

“I come in peace. I seek an audience with the King,” Merlin said. The man’s mouth tightened, as did his grip on his sword, but he did not dare move against a foreign dignitary, no matter who he was, who he had been, or that his very existence was against the laws of the land. Merlin waited unworriedly for the man to get over his qualms and do his duty; he was in no danger from these men, not with the immunity the laws of Camelot gave to him as the member of a royal court. And even if any of them did see fit to attack him, he was more than capable of handling the situation.

“This way,” the knight gritted out, abandoning his sword only reluctantly. He swept off up the stairs without any of the customary gestures of respect, no nod or bow or honorific, but Merlin decided that he was lucky enough to not have been attacked on sight and followed him without protest. Not that he exactly needed the escort to find the throne room seeing as he had managed to find it every day for the last eleven years without any problem, but again, some things had to be done properly. And this, announcing himself to be what he was after so long masquerading as something else entirely, was definitely one such thing.

The knights kept a close eye on him, never turning away entirely even though they were walking in front of him, and Gerund and Mordred were both regarded with equal distrust. Mordred especially, as he had been one of their own for a time, a knight of Camelot. That he was now wearing the blue of Carthis was not lost on anyone, nor were the repercussions of that fact.

The thought that there had been _two_ sorcerers hiding in their midst, two magic users whom they had failed to ferret out, was a frightening concept for those who had grown up seeing those with magic as figures of nightmare. Merlin understood that, he had expected it, and so their suspicion did not faze him. The eyes, however, that burned into his back as he climbed the stairs into the castle did.

These were people whom he had known for many years. He had lived among them, had greeted them every morning as he went about his duties and inquired after their children. He knew almost all of them by name, and many of them he would count as friends. But there was alarm on their faces now, bewilderment and horror as they realized what it was that they were seeing and exactly what it implied about the man whom they had come to like so much since his irreverent introduction to their crown prince. He was not whom he had said he was, and he never had been. He was the epitome of all that they had been taught to fear, the manipulative sorcerer stealing into their kingdom to destabilize it from within. He wished that he could talk to them all personally, reassure them that he was still the same man that he had been then. Well, maybe not quite. He had to admit that, had he been in their place, he probably would not have known himself either.

The door to the throne room was surrounded by a bevy of guards when they reached it, far more than were routine for a visiting dignitary, no matter what his rank. Merlin was not sure if he should be insulted or flattered by just how much of a danger he was obviously thought to be. Not all of the guards appeared to be hostile towards him, a few of them nodding respectfully and with only a touch of nervousness, but the majority of them treated him as a serious threat, most likely restraining themselves from apprehending him only on the direct orders of their king. The doors were pulled open despite the guards’ unwillingness to allow the sorcerers anywhere near their sovereign and Merlin and his companions were ushered into the throne room with nearly a dozen watchful guards surrounding them on all sides.

Arthur was sat on his throne, resplendent in his chainmail and bright cape and with his formal crown, the one that Merlin had spent so many nights polishing, settled neatly on his brow. Merlin, too, had worn his royal finery and his most ostentatious cloak with the enormous crest emblazoned across the back. He had even donned the ornate crown that had been bestowed upon him at his coronation rather than the more modest circlet of gold which he was more comfortable wearing on an everyday basis. The two of them had planned this out beforehand, the entrance and the address and the analogous clothing. They wished to present a united front, even before the partnership was made evident. They were equals now, and that would be clear from the first glance.

Various members of the council were spread around the edges of the room, their faces ranging from downright antagonistic to openly curious, with one much older man even looking vaguely excited at the prospect of this meeting. There were more knights as well, a good number of them, the majority of them higher ranking officers. All the members of the Round Table, the ones with whom Merlin had held council earlier in the day, were there, doing their best to keep their expressions blank so as not to give away the fact that they already knew what was going on. Gwen too was keeping her expression carefully composed, sitting primly at Arthur’s side with her hands folded tightly in her lap. Gaius stood in the back where he usually did, his head down so that his long white hair hid his face.

Merlin strode forward with all the confidence that he could muster, feeling lighter than he had done in weeks because Arthur already knew. He knew everything and he didn’t care. He knew everything and he didn’t hate Merlin. He knew everything and he was thankful for it. They were okay, they were _better_ than okay. As much as Merlin was loath to admit it, the dragon had been right. Their bond had been broken, but it had grown to be all the stronger for it. So Merlin detached himself from the formation of knights and guards to stand on his own before the throne of his best friend, his true king, and he bowed his head slightly, just the right sort of courteous acknowledgement for one king to another. Arthur rose to his feet and returned the gesture respectfully.

“Thank you, my Lord, for granting me this audience,” Merlin said clearly, the title more sincerely used than it had usually been when he had actually been Merlin’s Lord but still with that light undercurrent of impudence that had always characterized his capitulation to Arthur’s authority. The irreverence was less out of place now, when Arthur no longer held any real power over him, when his obedience was not a requirement but a courtesy. The tone was subtle enough that most would not notice it, but the slightest raise of one eyebrow told him that Arthur had, and that he was vaguely pleased by it.

“It has been a long time since a member of your court has entered these halls,” Arthur responded with the slightest quirk to his lips that had Merlin biting his own tongue to keep from laughing. A long time indeed; he had been there a few hours ago, and every day for eleven years before that. But then again, he had not technically been a member of the court of Carthis at that point in time. He had hardly even heard of the kingdom then, so he guessed that Arthur had a point in that. He and Arthur shared a quick look of amusement, one of those silent communications that the two of them had always been so adept at. Merlin was nearly overcome with relief that they still understood each other so well, that that had not changed in his absence.

“I wish that it could be under better auspices,” Merlin said, noting that the words were truer than he had intended them to be. “But I am sure that you have determined that this is not purely a social visit.”

“What brings you here, King Merlin?” Arthur asked somberly, though he knew the answer. Hearing that, hearing _King Merlin_ , come out of Arthur’s mouth stunned Merlin for a moment. It was just so odd, and it was even odder how _not_ _odd_ it felt to be referred to as such. There was something very right about it, something comfortable and familiar in a way that didn’t quite make sense. It drove home just how different he himself now was. Only two months had passed, but Merlin had changed a great deal. He was no longer a lowly serving boy, hiding in the shadows and playing with magic tricks.

He was royalty and he felt it all the way in the depths of his being. He was a warrior confident enough in his skills to lead men into battle. He was a king, the last in an ancient line of powerful sovereigns, and he was no longer afraid to wield that authority. He was Arthur’s equal, and he finally felt like it. He pulled back his shoulders, standing tall and with his head held high, meeting Arthur’s gaze with a confidence that he had never expected to possess.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but word has reached my ear that your kingdom is in danger,” Merlin said. “Morgana has set her sights on your throne yet again. I fear that an attack is imminent.”

A murmur of alarm went up throughout those gathered in the room as soon as Morgana’s name was mentioned. The guards closed in on Gerund and Mordred, as if _they_ were the ones threatening the safety of Camelot, but, restrained by propriety as they were, they could do little more than look menacing until given further provocation. Gerund and Mordred did not react, perfectly unconcerned about the row of snarling opponents waiting to be given a reason to run them through. Merlin too sensed eyes on his back, the presence of the guards uncomfortably close behind him, but he did nothing.

“How imminent?” Arthur demanded.

“I cannot be sure. But my guess is that she will move quickly while she still believes that she has the element of surprise on her side.”

“Sire, I beg your forgiveness, but is this not…I mean to say, if my eyes do not deceive me…” an ageing council stammered uncertainly, stepping forward from his place against the wall to point a slightly trembling finger in Merlin’s direction. “Is this not the young man who was in your employ for so long?” Arthur crossed his arms over his chest and smirked.

“Well, I did tell you that he left his post because he discovered that he had more pressing responsibilities to attend to in another kingdom,” he said, completely unrepentant. The fact that the excuse Arthur had given his councilors was perfectly true but still vague enough to exonerate him from any accusations of deceit in the matter entertained Merlin to no end, but he clamped down on the smile that was trying to force its way onto his face; now was not the time for it, even if he was near to giddy with the knowledge that Arthur had been protecting his reputation since the moment he left, keeping Merlin’s secret even when he did not have to.

“But Carthis is a kingdom of sorcerers!” another Lord exclaimed.

“Actually,” Merlin put in, “there are a great number of secular people living within my borders. But you are right in that the ruling class is composed primarily of those who possess a magical disposition.”

“Sire, you do understand what this means?”

“Do not insult my intelligence by assuming that I don’t, Lord Farnham,” Arthur said sharply.

Farnham had been giving Arthur trouble, Merlin could tell from the clenching of his jaw alone. It was not surprising; Lord Farnham had been one of Uther’s favorites, and one of the most doggedly determined to see magic eradicated. It made little sense to Merlin that someone as old as he, someone who had grown up and lived a good long while in a society in which magic had been accepted and appreciated, could become so entrenched in his belief of its wickedness. Magic had only been viewed in such a way for thirty years or so, less than half of Lord Farnham’s life. Did the man not remember his youth? Apparently he didn’t, because his eyes were blazing with loathing when he looked at Merlin, the enchanter who had dared to invade his court.

“That boy is a sorcerer!” he hissed, jabbing a finger in Merlin’s direction.

Merlin took a deep breath to rein in the quick burst of his temper; if one more person referred to him as a _boy_ , he was going to hex someone. He was near to thirty years old, he was certainly no child, and he did not appreciate being treated as such. Maybe he should grow a beard, something to prove that he was not nearly as young as he apparently looked. But that was not the only insult to his person that Lord Farnham wished to impart.

“How do we know that he is not in league with Morgana and only proposing an alliance to give her an in? How can we ever believe that he would willingly fight against one of his own?” he said with an accusatory viciousness that had him spitting.

“Morgana is not one of us,” Merlin said sharply, indignation flaring within him at the comparison. He was not like her, he would never be like her. The rustling of cloaks and clink of chainmail just over his shoulder told him that Gerund and Mordred were as upset by the suggestion of their complicity as he was. “With her hatred and her violence, she disgraces us all. The dark spells that she employs are as illegal in my kingdom as they are in yours. She is a blight upon the name of all magic and she will find no sympathy among my people, you can rest assured of that.”

“How can you expect us to believe a word that you say?” the second Lord to have spoken asked. “You have already proven yourself to be deceitful in all that you do. We have no reason to trust that your warnings are in any way genuine.”

“My deceit was to preserve my life,” Merlin said coldly. “If I had been genuine, then I would have been killed.”

“Then perhaps you should have known better than to darken Camelot’s door in the first place.”

“Camelot is my home,” Merlin said, knowing in his heart of hearts that there was nothing truer. “Carthis may be the kingdom of my forefathers, but Camelot will always be my home. I have protected her for years and I will not stop that simply because I no longer live within her borders.”

“Camelot is no home for filthy sorcerers like you!” roared the older knight who had led Merlin and his party from the courtyard. Abruptly, he drew his sword, the ring of the steel echoing around the chamber as it slid from its sheath. The knight charged at Merlin with a cry of rage. The other knights of Camelot armed themselves as well, though they did not follow their fellow’s charge, instead casting uncertain looks at Arthur as if inquiring as to whether they should stop him or help him. Gerund immediately drew his sword and moved to meet the knight before he could reach his target, but Merlin did not wish for the situation to escalate any further than it already had.

Before any weapons could make contact, one spell from Merlin saw the knight encased in a dome shield. He ran headfirst into the barrier, bouncing back to hit the other side of it. Gasps sounded throughout the room at the sudden appearance of the thing, at the sight of magic being performed in the heart of Camelot. The knight gawped at the golden cage that had suddenly sprung up to enclose him, spinning around on the spot in horror. He dropped his sword and began to bang his fists against it, his mouth open in what was obviously a shout, but no sound reached those watching.

Everyone in the room was frozen still, staring openly and too shocked to respond as the knight gave up his pounding in favor of leaning his entire weight against the barrier, pushing and shoving and hoping that he could break through by brute force alone. Uncertain murmurs arose among the council members when they realized that Merlin was making no move to do anything else, that he had restrained the man without doing him any harm even though his life had been directly threatened.

“Let him go, Merlin,” Arthur ordered with no small amount of amusement in his tone. “I think he’s learned his lesson.”

Merlin shrugged and waved his hand. The dome disappeared and the knight, formerly supported by it, went sprawling across the floor in a very undignified heap. He scrambled to his feet, snatching up his sword from the ground. He lunged for Merlin with a snarl, but he found that he was met not with his target but with the sword of his king. Arthur disarmed the knight with one swift move and held the tip of his sword to the man’s throat, all traces of amusement gone from his face.

“You have attacked a king, Sir Bruin,” he said slowly and clearly, “and a guest in my court. That in itself is a hanging offense. However, if I know Merlin—and I am quite sure that I do—then he will not wish for you to be punished for this.”

He sent a sidelong glance at Merlin, looking for confirmation, and Merlin gave it with a nod; he had wanted to make a point, not get anyone hanged. He did not need to cause any harm in order to defeat someone, though he would hardly have needed to move a muscle in order to strike the knight down. He was, in fact, capable of restraint and mercy, sorcerer or no. Arthur turned back to the knight, whose face had paled considerably now as the enormity of his offense sunk in. Arthur let him sweat for a moment more before he removed his sword from Sir Bruin’s throat, sheathing it with a flourish. He looked around the room, making certain to meet each person’s eye before he spoke again.

“This man is the only reason that Camelot still stands,” he said with a gesture at Merlin.

“And just what do you mean by that?” a councilor asked.

“I mean exactly what I say, Lord Travin. It has come to my attention in recent months just how many times Merlin has been personally responsible for the safekeeping of my kingdom. The water-born plague several years ago that killed dozens of people in the lower town: Merlin determined its origins and how to cure it. The living gargoyles which nearly destroyed the castle: Merlin overpowered the eternal soul of Cornelius Sigan and stopped their attack. The immortal army— _both_ immortal armies—to have laid siege to the citadel: Merlin destroyed them nearly singlehandedly. It was only through Merlin’s efforts that we were able to take the citadel from Morgana the last two times. Each and every one of you owes his life to Merlin. As does every man, woman, and child in this kingdom. And I will not allow you to repay that debt with violence and disrespect.”

In the silence that followed, Gwaine stepped forward to stand at Merlin’s shoulder, bowing respectfully to him before turning to face the rest of the room resolutely. As soon as he had, the rest of the Knights of the Round Table followed, falling in on either side of Merlin in an obvious show of solidarity. The others watched mutely as the number of people standing in support of Merlin grew, Gaius joining the group next, and Gerund and Mordred moving to flank them all. The final straw came when Guinevere moved to insinuate herself at Merlin’s side, nudging her brother out of the way so that she could take Merlin’s hand in her own. The sight of their king, their queen, their physician, and their best knights clustered around the sorcerer with blatant trust shining through on all of their faces was the only thing that could have convinced them.

One by one, ever so slowly, the other knights of Camelot came forward to stand cautiously with their own; they had to trust in the judgment of their comrades, or else they could trust no one at all. Soon the councilors began to join them, nodding their tentative acceptance. There were a few hold outs, the antagonistic Sir Bruin and the glowering Lord Farnham at the forefront of the small group, but they were faced with the staunch support of their sovereigns and the majority of their peers and so wisely held their tongues.

Finally, Arthur turned to face Merlin and held out his hand. Merlin mirrored him and they grasped each other’s forearms tightly. There was something in the moment, something weighty and uplifting at the same time, some sense of significance, as if everything had been leading up to this moment. This, the two of them standing side by side, fighting together as equals, had been destined from the beginning of time. It was a long, suspended moment in which everything clicked into place.

“I would offer you my support in this endeavor, King Arthur,” Merlin said solemnly.

“Your people will aid me?” Arthur asked.

“Carthis will stand with us both.”

“Then I will be glad of your help. And I will be more than honored to fight alongside you, King Merlin.” Arthur’s eyes glistened with the light of sincerity, of true esteem. Merlin tightened his grip on Arthur’s forearm.

“Then let us fight.”


	21. Chapter Twenty

Merlin stayed in Camelot until well past dusk, sitting in on Arthur’s war council. His attendance made things very tense in the beginning, some of the council members reluctant to discuss their tactics with a perceived enemy in the room, but his active participation—and his restraint from actually performing any more magic in their presence—thawed most of the ice after a while. Arthur’s attitude helped a great deal as well. Not once did he look askance at Merlin when he made a suggestion that involved the use of magic, and he did not hesitate to take up the proposal if he thought it would be in the best interests of the defense of his people.

He treated Merlin with as much respect and consideration as he had any other ally that he had ever worked with, no more and no less, and the council was soothed and reassured by the familiarity of that. It probably helped that Merlin did not look as he had just a short two months ago, nor did he act as he had. He did not shuffle his feet or bow his head, he did not blend back into the shadows, he did not divert attention elsewhere, and he did not trip over his own feet or smile like an idiot. Instead he exuded an aura of competency, standing tall and meeting their eyes steadily and without the slightest hint of self-consciousness.

By the time the candles had begun to burn low in their holders, it was decided that there could be no more planning that night. They still did not know when Morgana’s attack would come, and there was little more to be done until they had more concrete information to work with. Merlin rubbed at his eyes, which were gritty and tired from long hours of poring over maps by candlelight, and scanned the room for his companions.

Sir Gerund was speaking with some of the more open-minded knights of Camelot, who looked only mildly uncomfortable with the knowledge of what he was rather than afraid, most likely explaining in more detail what the other mages would be doing when they arrived to help defend the citadel; it would be less of a distraction to them while they were fighting if they had some idea of what was coming. Mordred was not with him though, and Merlin frowned. He hoped Mordred had not transported back to Carthis on his own; Merlin had been hoping to delegate a rather important task to him. Almost immediately, as though summoned by the thought, the young knight appeared at his side.

“Are you ready for us to return to Carthis?” he asked.

“Actually, Mordred, you are to remain here,” Merlin said.

“What?” Mordred asked in surprise. “Why?”

“I am putting you in charge of organizing the magical defense,” Merlin told him firmly; he had been thinking of this all day and he had no doubts in his mind that it was the best course of action. Mordred, judging by the dumbfounded expression on his face, did not agree.

“But, Merlin…I don’t have hardly any experience in matters such as these,” he argued. “Surely there are better candidates, someone older and more—”

“Mordred,” Merlin stopped him. “You may be young, but you are a skilled swordsman and an incredibly powerful warlock. And more important than that, you know this castle. And you know Morgana. There is no one better suited.” Mordred swallowed hard, not looking at all convinced, and his eyes flickered over Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin followed his gaze to find Arthur, speaking quietly with Sir Leon, and he understood Mordred’s reluctance. The vision from the Vates played out behind his eyes, Mordred in black armour and Arthur falling to his knees before him, but it was soon replaced with the memory of Mordred’s horrified expression, his tearful pleas and desperate protestations upon learning of his fate, and Merlin’s misgivings faded away immediately.

Mordred was his man through and through. He had no reason, no reason at all, to betray them, not with Arthur’s stance on magic having changed so completely. And besides, even if Mordred had wanted to turn against them, it would prove rather difficult for him now; after his obvious loyalty to Merlin in Carthis, Morgana would want nothing to do with him anymore. Their fated union looked to be highly unlikely now, and if that portion of the prophecy was so thoroughly negated, then perhaps the rest of it could be avoided as well. Merlin turned back to Mordred, who was biting his lip, and gripped his shoulder tightly.

“I trust you, Mordred,” he said. The young knight looked up at him with bright, worried eyes. He was doubting himself, going through every possible scenario in his head and looking for ways that he could prove a danger to Arthur. It saddened Merlin to see it, the fear and the self-loathing, and to know that he had put it there. Knowledge of one’s own fate was a heavy burden to bear, but this self-awareness would be what saved Mordred from himself in the end. Merlin gave Mordred a little shake to pull him from his thoughts, to make sure that he was listening properly. “I trust you,” he repeated firmly. Mordred swallowed audibly and nodded, slowly at first and then more quickly, as if he were steeling himself.

“Thank you, Merlin,” he whispered, saying Merlin’s given name with as much respect and reverence as he once had _Emrys_. It seemed to mean so much more now, bringing a warm sort of feeling in Merlin’s chest and an incredible fondness for the boy before him who had become such a great friend to him. “I will not disappoint you.”

“I know you won’t,” Merlin said with a smile.

“ _Mer_ lin!” The two of them turned to see Arthur striding toward them. “You seem to have appropriated one of my knights,” he said haughtily, fingering the Ambrosius blue cape on Mordred’s shoulders where there once had been Pendragon red.

“Er, yes, well…” Merlin stammered, realizing at once that Arthur had given Mordred permission to _visit_ Carthis and had fully expected for him to return. “He, er, he was going to come back, but then…um…”

 _It’s alright, Merlin,_ Mordred thought, broadcasting it into his mind. _He’s going to find out during the battle anyway._

 _Then you should tell him yourself_ , Merlin thought back. _He deserves to hear it from you._ Mordred took a deep breath and stepped forward, anxious but determined nonetheless to be honest.

“Actually, Arthur, sire,” he said, then stopped to clear his throat. He raised his chin resolutely. “I have been dubbed a mage of Carthis.” Arthur simply looked at him for a moment, his brow furrowing. Then he nodded slowly.

“Yes, I guess that makes sense,” he said. Merlin and Mordred exchanged glances; they had expected a bit more of a reaction than that. He had been furious upon finding out that Merlin had been a sorcerer, although he had come around with time, but he apparently wasn’t all that fussed about Mordred. Merlin wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or annoyed.

“It…it does?” Mordred asked uncertainly.

“Well, you are a Druid,” Arthur pointed out, as if they didn’t already know that. “It was never that far out of the range of possibilities.” He had a fair point with that. The Druids were a primarily magical people, steeped in spiritualism and the esoteric, and there were far more Druids with magic than there were without. Arthur looked a little sheepish now, as if he was embarrassed that it had never occurred to him before that Mordred might have magic. Merlin thought that there had probably been some willful blindness there, a refusal to even consider such a thing. But now that it had been pointed out, it must have seemed very obvious.

“So you don’t…mind? You’re not angry?” Mordred pressed, already sounding infinitely relieved.

“I can no more be angry at you than I can at Merlin,” Arthur said with a shake of his head. “With the laws being the way that they were, I could not possibly fault you for protecting your own life. This is just another reason for the laws to be changed. I can no longer condone the senseless persecution of good people. You served me well, Mordred, and I will be sad to see you go, but I acknowledge that your skills are perhaps more suited to Merlin’s command than they would be to mine,” he admitted.

“It would be a privilege to serve either of you,” Mordred proclaimed, looking between them eagerly and appearing torn, apparently unable to choose one of them over the other. Merlin rolled his eyes at his enthusiasm, smiling in spite of himself.

“It’s not like it makes that much of a difference, really,” he said. “In serving me, he will be serving you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Arthur asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I will always be your servant, Arthur,” Merlin said. _Till the day I die._ He had told Arthur that once before, and he meant it to this day. Even with a crown on his own head and an entire kingdom at his command, Merlin would always think of Arthur as his king, the Once and Future King. He would follow him to the mouth of hell and back; in fact, he was fairly certain that he already had. And he would do it again without a second’s hesitation. Arthur’s face softened into a small, impossibly fond smile that Merlin could not help but return.

“You don’t need to be my servant anymore, Merlin,” he said. “Even if you follow me, you will do so as my friend.”

“I have never wanted anything more.” The moment was broken by the approach of Sir Gerund, who gave a slight bow to Arthur before turning to his own king.

“The hour grows late, sire,” he said. “It may be best that we return to Carthis for the evening. It is possible that the Priests will need your help in setting up the Barrier.”

“You’re right, of course,” Merlin said.

He was rather looking forward to seeing his idea come to fruition. Kane had confirmed that the Perimeter could indeed be made solid if enough magic was put into it, but he was not entirely sure that they had that much magic at their disposal, even with all the Priests combined. Maintaining the dome’s impermeability would be a simple matter once it was put into place, the magic recycling itself through grounding crystals and only needing a relatively small influx to replace the wisps of magic that regularly escaped into the atmosphere, but Merlin might prove to be the only one with power enough to provide that first flood of magic necessary for making the thing into an actual solid barricade.

“Sir Mordred will be staying here to coordinate the joint effort,” he said.

“A good choice for it, my Lord,” Gerund said with a proud smile that made Mordred blush slightly, not used to such outpourings of esteem. “Shall we go?”

“We shall. Oh, wait! I nearly forgot!” he said abruptly, fishing around in his pocket for the charm that had been given to him by his cousin.

He had been more than a little surprised when Lord Ellison had called him back after the war meeting when he had proposed coming to Camelot’s aid—and, incidentally, when he had thoroughly humiliated the man’s father, but Ellison hadn’t seemed nearly as upset by that as Tennison had—and pressed into his hand two of the little talismans, saying that they were communication charms that his father had been developing with the Lower Priests for weeks. They were functional now, and he had thought that Merlin might be able to make use of them. The gesture had touched Merlin more than he would be willing to say, and he had thanked him profusely for them, knowing that they would indeed come in handy.

“Here,” he said, handing Arthur the charm. Arthur took it with a raised eyebrow, examining the small metal disk embossed with a number of runes that he did not understand and the leather straps attached to either side of it, made to be fastened together. Then he gave Merlin a rather sarcastically pleased face.

“Oh wow, Merlin, a bracelet. It’s just what I’ve always wanted,” he exclaimed. He rolled his eyes. “As if you weren’t already enough of a girl.” Merlin was too caught up in a rush of happiness at the lighthearted teasing that he had never expected to hear again to even be annoyed by the insult. Instead he laughed, slightly out of place but free and unrestrained all the same.

“It’s not purely for decorative purposes, Arthur,” he chortled. “They’re communication charms.”

“They’re what?” Arthur asked, baffled by the unfamiliar term.

“They will allow you to contact me immediately, even if I’m a kingdom away,” Merlin said.

“How so?” Arthur asked skeptically, giving the little thing in his hand a dubious look.

“Here, look,” Merlin said as he shook back his sleeve to show that he had an identical bracelet already around his wrist. “I have one too, just the same. They’re connected. If I hold it tightly, like this—” Merlin wrapped his hand around his wrist so that the metal was pressed directly against his skin. “—and I think of you—” The charm in Arthur’s hand began to emit a faint white light and Arthur nearly dropped it in surprise as the metal grew hot against his fingers. “—then that happens. Now you try, go on.”

Arthur was holding the thing away from him in two fingers, though his nervousness decreased when it stopped glowing. At Merlin’s urging, he tentatively clasped the talisman in his fist and closed his eyes, obviously thinking hard. Merlin had to fight back a whoop of triumph as he felt his own charm heat up against his wrist. Arthur opened one eye to see if it was working and Merlin held up his arm to show him that it was, beaming. The slow grin that crossed Arthur’s face, the look of almost childish wonder, made Merlin’s chest hurt in the best way possible.

“See? We can use this to send signals to each other. This way you can alert me when the fight is about to begin,” Merlin explained. “When you first get word of Morgana’s approach, use this and hold the connection for at least three seconds and I will come to your aid with the troops that I promised. Anything less than that three seconds, and I’ll assume that you’re in immediate danger and come straightaway, with backup or without it.” He would fight an entire army alone if he had to, if that’s what it would take to keep Arthur safe. He did not say that out loud, but Arthur seemed to hear it anyway. He nodded his understanding and allowed Merlin to fasten the bracelet around his wrist, spinning it around so that the charm would rest on the underside where the skin was most sensitive. “Don’t forget,” Merlin said.

“I’m not going to forget, Merlin. How stupid do you think I am?” Arthur asked indignantly.

“Well…” Merlin said, drawing the word out teasingly. Arthur punched him in the arm, but the smile on his face belayed any actual affront. They both seemed to realize at once that Merlin was going to have to leave now, that he was going back to Carthis, and their joviality deflated a bit to leave a slightly awkward silence in its wake. “Well…” Merlin repeated, sadly this time rather than playfully. “I guess I’d better go.”

“Yes. You have things to attend to, I’m sure,” Arthur said gruffly. Merlin did indeed have plenty of things to attend to, so much that he hardly knew where to start.

He had a sudden, nearly overwhelming urge to just pass it all off to Arthur. Arthur was used to being king, he was good at that, he knew what he was supposed to be doing. While he had improved in leaps and bounds since his coronation, Merlin still felt like he was blundering around in the dark sometimes. What he wouldn’t have given in that moment just to be a servant again, for his most pressing concern to be whether or not he had remembered to polish Arthur’s armour for the next tournament. But the feeling passed quickly. Carthis was his kingdom, his responsibility, and he would do his best by it. He had Gerund and his council for advice, and he had the support of his friends back, which made all the difference in the world. If they believed in him, then he would damn well believe in himself.

“That I do,” he said. He offered his hand to Arthur, but Arthur bypassed the handshake and pulled him in for a hug instead, as if, now that he had finally admitted openly to liking Merlin, he had broken the dam and couldn’t stop showing his affection. “I’ll be back in a day or two,” Merlin laughed, though he hugged Arthur back just as tightly.

“I know. Take care, Merlin,” Arthur said, pulling back to squeeze Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin nodded to him, and to Mordred, and then gestured to Sir Gerund. Gerund placed a hand on Merlin’s arm and Merlin reached for the pendant around his neck, taking one last long look around the council chamber of Camelot before he muttered the words of the transportation spell that would take them back to Carthis.

 

\--

 

Merlin was woken up the following morning by Raime bumping him in the shoulder with his hip, his hands busy with a plate of breakfast. Merlin startled upright, confused for a moment at the unusual view until he realized that he must have fallen asleep at his desk. He had only intended to go over a few things before going to bed, thinking that it would just take a couple of minutes, but the candles on either end of the desk had melted down a good bit at his last remembrance. He scratched sheepishly at the back of his head as Raime gave him a scolding look, nudging the papers out of the way so that he could set down his platter.

“You need to take care of yourself, Merlin,” Raime said.

“I have more important things to be doing right now,” Merlin tried to say, but it came out as a loud, slightly garbled yawn. “This is going to be the first battle I’ve conducted, and we’re going into it practically blind. I need to know the plan inside and out if I expect all of my men to come out of this battle alive.” He had never eaten any supper the night before, he realized as the delicious smells wafted up at him from the enormous pile of food before him. He dug in eagerly, not caring about maintaining a regal bearing when it was just his manservant present. Raime chuckled a bit as he went about tidying up the chambers and setting out a change of clothes for him.

“The fighters know the risks,” he pointed out. “They knew them when they signed up. Falling in battle is an occupational hazard. You can’t possibly expect every single man to survive.” Merlin set back down the sausage he had been about to eat, suddenly feeling a bit queasy.

“I know,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t hope for it.”

This was the part of being king that he had dreaded most, and the part that he had seen Arthur struggle with for years. Neither of them had ever wanted anyone else to die for them. But it was a hallmark of kingship that the most dangerous tasks be delegated to others, that king and kingdom be protected at all costs. It was incredibly humbling to know that there were men out there, men that he knew, men that he had trained with, who would be willing to give their lives to keep him safe and to defend their kingdom. Merlin would have died for Arthur in a heartbeat, but it was so much different being on the other end of it.

It turned Merlin’s stomach to know that, in just a few short days, several of his men were likely to be dead because he had volunteered them for this. Battles on the scale that they were expecting always resulted in casualties, and it had been Merlin’s idea to involve Carthis in the struggle. He could have just gone himself, he could have protected Camelot as he had always done, without the aid of a horde of men at his back. But he had made that decision and he couldn’t go back on it now. No longer hungry, Merlin pushed the plate away and moved to change out of yesterday’s clothes and into the fresh outfit that Raime had laid out for him.

“You won’t be much good to your men if you forget to eat and don’t get any sleep,” Raime said chidingly.

“I know, I know,” Merlin groused, his words muffled through the tunic he was pulling over his head.

“You claimed that you didn’t need a manservant, but it’s pretty clear that you need someone to look after you,” Raime continued as Merlin sat down to pull on his boots.

“Yes, yes, Mother, I get it,” Merlin sighed. “Eat and sleep and all that good stuff.” But Raime was ignoring his mutterings completely, picking up a bag from beside the door.

“That’s why I’m coming with you,” he said brightly.

“Wait, _what_?” Merlin yelped, nearly toppling over when he tried to leap to his feet while he was still lacing his boots.

“I’m coming with you,” Raime repeated. Merlin righted himself and leveled his manservant with as stern a look as he could manage while still half-dressed and with his boots untied.

“No, you most certainly are not,” he said.

“Yes, I am.”

“No, absolutely _not_.”

“What if you need something? I’m your manservant, I should be at your side,” Raime insisted.

“Following me into battle isn’t exactly in your job description,” Merlin countered.

“You followed _Arthur_ into battle all the time,” Raime said, and Merlin winced at just how true that was, how hypocritical it sounded for him to deny Raime. But there had been extenuating circumstances in his case.

“It is my destiny to keep Arthur safe, my sacred duty,” Merlin said. “A battle is no place for you, Raime. You are no fighter.”

“Neither were you!”

“Perhaps not, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am the most powerful warlock to ever exist,” Merlin said, near to tearing his hair out in exasperation. The conditions were different, so different. He had never wanted to use his legendary power as an excuse or a justification, but he could not allow Raime to put himself in danger this way, not for his sake. He would not have another one of his friends dying for him. “No matter how bad things got, I could always fall back on raw power and be secure in the knowledge that no one could match me. You don’t have that same security. Please, Raime, stay here.”

“Why should I?” he demanded with that sort of bold, impetuous air that was only found in young men eager to prove themselves, his chin raised defiantly and his jaw set. He held the bag—which he had packed for himself, Merlin realized, and not for his master—closer to his chest protectively, as if thinking that Merlin was going to snatch it out of his hands. “I want to fight for you as much as everyone else does. Why shouldn’t I?”

“Raime, I’m begging you. For my sake, if not for your own. I have already lost far too many friends. I don’t want to lose you too.”

Merlin’s voice wavered a bit as the faces of all those whom he had lost swam in his mind: Lancelot, Will, his father, Freya. So many of Camelot’s best knights, so many citizens who had had no part in the fighting. Merlin had known them all, had been friends with most. There had already been too many casualties in this war, too many innocent lives lost. He didn’t think that he could stand to see another friend fall, even one whom he had only known for a couple of months. Despite the class difference and the recentness of their acquaintance, Raime had indeed become his friend, and Merlin would protect him to the death as he would any of the other people he cared about.

This must have showed on his face and in his voice, because Raime’s resolute expression faltered and his bravado deflated visibly. The tight grip he had had on the bag in his hands loosened gradually until the bag fell to the floor with a light thump, but he made no move to retrieve it. Instead, he simply fetched Merlin’s jacket for him and held it out. Merlin allowed Raime to help him into it and took the crown that was handed to him mutely. Raime looked so defeated that Merlin almost felt bad for not allowing him to fight, but he could not bring himself to regret the order to remain behind where it was safe. He stood awkwardly as Raime shuffled around the room, straightening things up and collecting his clothes to be laundered. He was still in the same spot, his boots still unlaced, when Raime turned to leave, but his manservant stopped in the doorway and looked back at him.

“You’re a good king, Merlin,” he said softly. “And an even better man. And I would die for you as readily as any of your fighters.”

“I would never ask you to,” Merlin said. A small smile appeared on Raime’s face.

“And that’s exactly why we would.” Merlin shook his head in wonder.

“I have never done anything to inspire such loyalty,” he said.

“You’re _you_ , Merlin,” Raime said with a chuckle. “You inspire loyalty in every little thing you do.” Merlin shook his head again, not understanding Raime’s devotion but touched beyond words by it. Raime made as if to leave again, but he did not make it past the door before he stopped once more, hesitating before turning back. “Merlin, just…I know that Arthur is going to be your priority,” he said, “but…make sure that you come back too.”

“I will,” Merlin promised him solemnly.

He had no intention of dying in this battle, not now, not when everything was finally coming together. He would not allow Morgana to take from him everything that he had gained. He had Arthur’s trust and his esteem, he had a beautiful kingdom at his command, he had the loyalty of his men and the love of his people. He had the freedom to be who he was without fear of reprisal. He was so close to seeing his and Arthur’s destiny realized. He would not allow Morgana to stand in the way of that. With Arthur at his side, there was no doubt in his mind that victory would be theirs. Raime bowed to him, a truly deferential bow that made Merlin flush in a way that he hadn’t for weeks now, and left without another word, leaving Merlin alone.


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

Most of that day was spent shut up in the council chambers, bent over maps of both kingdoms and long registers of soldiers and diagrams of various military strategies. The difference between this meeting and the endless council meetings that Merlin had endured on a daily basis since he had been crowned king was palpable, and not only because it was a war council.

The councilors were actively seeking his opinion. They were asking for his advice and looking to him to make the final decision, whereas before they had oftentimes overlooked him completely. He no longer had to fight to make his voice heard or defend his every suggestion against a group of skeptical faces. There was a respect there that had never been present before; he had gotten the feeling that, while the members of his council may have respected him as a person, they had had little confidence in his leadership skills. Perhaps he should have listed out his accomplishments sooner because his outburst over Lord Tennison’s disrespect seemed to have erased the last of their doubts on the matter of his competence.

The deeds that he had cited had not seemed so remarkable to him, but Merlin guessed that, when they were all put together like that, they did sound rather impressive. Maybe he just had a bit of a skewed perspective on what was an achievement and what was not. He had come to realize that some feats that were commonplace for him seemed to be nigh on impossible for many others, like splitting his focus and performing two spells at once. Either way, all the things he had said that he had done were enough to convince the council that he was not nearly as inexperienced as he had initially seemed. He was not, contrary to first impressions, some civilian dragged in off the street to run their kingdom into the ground. He knew what he was doing, and they were finally trusting him to do it.

The difference that trust made was staggering, and the time seemed to pass more quickly than it had ever done before as Merlin planned out the defensive strategies for his own kingdom and worked through a number of different scenarios for the coming attack on Camelot. A few hours earlier, before this meeting had begun, Merlin had ridden out to the Perimeter with Kane and a number of Lower Priests. With the contribution of all the Priests, a host of massive grounding crystals, and a considerable boost from Merlin, they had succeeded in transforming the Perimeter into a solid Barrier.

The only way for anyone to pass through the Barrier was with the help of the select few—namely, the members of the council and some of the high ranking officers in the fighting force—who had been given the authority to open up a gap, a sort of gateway into the city. There was now at least one such person stationed along the Barrier at regular intervals that corresponded to the cardinal entrances to the city to allow for troops to be moved in and out, and in case any of the common people had gotten stuck on the wrong side when the Barrier was solidified.

There was little more that needed to be done aside from that; the city was as secure as it could possibly be, more secure than it had ever been before. Of course, there would still be a strong military presence at the edges of the city, but it was more precautionary than anything else.

The plans for Camelot were proving more difficult to hammer out, especially without direct contact with Arthur. The communication charms were only good for sending basic signals and while it was possible for Merlin to project his spirit into Camelot, that took a great deal of magic and Merlin did not want to expend that much energy when had already used a huge amount in setting up the Barrier; no matter that his magic seemed to be near to inexhaustible at times, he would rather err on the side of caution and take this time to rest and replenish his reserves before the actual fighting was to take place.

The uncertainty, the knowing that a battle was coming but not knowing when or where or how large, was taking its toll on everyone’s nerves. It was all speculation at this point, hypothetical situations and guesses—educated guesses, on Merlin’s part, but guesses nonetheless—as to what Morgana would do. There was really only so much that they could do to prepare without having more concrete information on hand. Eventually Merlin had to concede that they had run through every scenario that any of them could think of and that it would do them no good to keep rehashing the same things, and he dismissed the council with a weary wave of his hand.

“Lord Ellison, may I have a word?” he called over the din of scraping chairs. Ellison nodded and waited for the room to be mostly clear before he came to Merlin’s side.

“You wished to speak with me, sire?” he asked. His use of the honorific, while not commonplace by a long shot, was not so unheard of these days. It had been well over two weeks since he had last spoken out against Merlin in council or said anything belittling about him. His attitude seemed to be changing where Merlin was concerned and Merlin could not have been more pleased with it; he had meant what he said when he told Ellison that family was important to him. He did not have nearly enough of it to be at odds with the little he did have.

“Yes, I did. You have military experience, do you not?” Merlin inquired.

“I do, sire,” he said, sounding proud of that fact, but not fulsome as Merlin would have expected upon meeting him. Merlin nodded, pleased with his answer.

“Then I wish for you to stay here,” he said. Ellison’s face immediately contorted in confusion and indignation, and Merlin guessed that he probably could have prefaced that request in a way that did not sound so disparaging.

“ _What_?” Ellison asked crossly. “You want me to stay behind _because_ I know how to fight? That makes no sense at all!”

“Ellison, I want you to be in charge of safeguarding the kingdom in my absence,” Merlin hurried to explain. That stopped Ellison’s complaints in their tracks and he gaped at Merlin for a moment, taken aback. Merlin understood his surprise; after all, the two of them had not had a good start and their relationship hadn’t improved all that much since then. Not enough to warrant this, at least.

“But…why?” Ellison asked, sounding honestly perplexed. Merlin placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Ellison, before I showed up to make my claim, the council was perfectly willing to give you the throne,” he said. He had come to this decision the night before when he had realized that in leading the fight in Camelot himself, he would be leaving Carthis without his protection. He had entertained the thought of leaving Sir Gerund behind in his place, but Gerund was too good a fighter for him to do without in a battle such as this promised to be.

Then he had remembered that, despite his rather abrasive attitude, Ellison had been qualified enough that the council had only _not_ crowned him king immediately because Gerund had insisted that there was someone out there with a stronger claim to the throne. If there was anyone suited to act in his stead, then it would be the one who could easily have taken his place.

“They believed you to be capable of being king,” Merlin said. “If they had that much trust in your ability to keep them safe, then I will as well. I need someone here that I can trust to protect my people in my absence. And I want that person to be you.”

Ellison looked at him for a moment, his brow furrowed and his expression inscrutable as he searched Merlin’s face. Before he had found whatever it was that he was looking for, before he had a chance to answer, a rush of heat against the sensitive skin of his inner wrist wrenched a gasp from Merlin’s lips. He immediately shook down his sleeve to see the small metal disk that was the communication charm giving off a faint white light. His heart caught in his throat and he counted—one second, two seconds, three seconds, four seconds.

Some of the initial panic faded and he took a deep breath to calm his racing heart; four seconds. Arthur was not being threatened, he was not in immediate danger. He should not have felt as relieved as he did considering that a signal of that length indicated the first sighting of Morgana’s force making its way towards Camelot, but he couldn’t quite help it. The alarm remained, though. Their time was running out. Merlin turned back to Ellison, who had paled a bit in understanding of what that signal meant.

“Ellison, can I trust you to—”

“Yes, of course you can,” Ellison said quickly, pulling his shoulders back determinedly. “I will defend this kingdom to the death.”

“Thank you.” With that, Merlin turned to search out Gerund and Sir Frederick, but Ellison called him back.

“Merlin!” He stopped when Merlin turned back at his call, looking a bit embarrassed, as though he had not meant to say anything at all. He cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly on his feet for a moment before raising his eyes to meet Merlin’s. “Good luck, cousin,” he said clearly. A smile grew on Merlin’s face, the warm feeling in his chest completely at odds with the apprehension that had taken over him as soon as the talisman had burned against his wrist, but he couldn’t stop it.

“And you as well, cousin,” he said, relishing in the opportunity to say it and to mean it, to know that he had family. It meant more than Merlin would have thought it would, gaining the confidence of one of the only kinsmen he had left. Ellison smiled back, tentative and uncertain but far more genuine than anything the two had ever exchanged before. And then he bowed to Merlin, a show of respect and deference that Merlin would never have expected of him, not after how vehemently he had fought against Merlin’s rule in the beginning. Merlin nodded back, his grin threatening to take over his face entirely, before the urgency of the situation forced him to turn away and seek out the leaders of his fighting force. They had a battle to win, after all.

 

\--

 

The courtyard was filled with blue and red cloaks, the disparate colors striking to the eye in a way that a solid mass of one or the other wouldn’t have been. Merlin was once again immeasurably glad for the idea that he had had so early on in the transportation crystals, for there would have been no other way to transport so many fighters such a distance without taking a good number of them out of the fight entirely due to magical exhaustion. As it was, each commanding officer had in his possession a crystal which he had been imbuing with energy for weeks now in case of just such an occasion as this. Every person in the courtyard was perfectly well rested and ready to join in the coming battle.

For the most part, the two groups of fighters remained segregated. The knights of Camelot cast wary glances at the Carthisian force, but they no one made any move against them, for which Merlin was grateful; they could not afford for there to be dissent in the ranks, not now with Morgana and her men on the horizon. His own men—and women; it had been quite entertaining to see the reactions of the Camelot knights upon discovering that there were women fighting for Carthis—were guarded as well, with the knowledge that the knights of Camelot had spent their entire lives hunting down their kind like animals. It was all very tense and uncomfortable, but not openly hostile. Merlin spent a good long while going around and speaking to his men individually, assuring them that, yes, they had been welcomed there by the King and, no, there would not be any measures taken against them because of their magic.

The Knights of the Round Table had been a godsend. Since the four of them had known about Merlin’s magic for two months now and had had all that time to come to terms with the possibility of magic’s beneficence, they had no qualms about approaching the fighters from Carthis and engaging them in conversations about tactics or previous battles or magic itself or even just daily life in Carthis. Their boldness, and the tentative but friendly way in which the Carthisian fighters responded to their inquiries, was helping to break the ice between the two groups.

It also helped that there was no way for Camelot’s knights to tell the difference between the knights of Carthis and the mages, between who had magic and who did not. There was no difference in the armour or the cloaks that they wore, and each and every one of them had a sword at his or her hip. Knowing that some were magic and some were not but not being able to distinguish between them went against much of what those in Camelot had believed; namely, that sorcerers were a different breed, that they were not like normal people. They looked perfectly normal now, exactly like their secular comrades.

Merlin stayed in the courtyard for a while, speaking one on one with his fighters and helping to organize them into the proper rank and file. Mordred was there, running back and forth between Sir Gerund and Sir Leon and coordinating the mages with the soldiers that would be guarding their backs while they set up their defensive spells along the perimeter of the castle; these soldiers had been chosen specifically by Leon, open-minded enough to be trusted not to stab the sorcerers in the back while they were caught up in their spell-casting.

Merlin had caught sight of Arthur briefly, looking down on them from the place on the battlements that Merlin had always secretly thought of as his _brooding spot_ , but the next time that he had looked up, Arthur had been gone. Now, Merlin left his troops in the capable and much more experienced hands of Sir Gerund and Sir Frederick and went in search of his friend.

His first stop was the council chambers, but Arthur was not among the men clustered around the map on the table as he had expected him to be. Merlin slipped out of the room again without anyone noticing that he had been there, not wanting to get drawn into more discussions and distracted from his search. He headed for the throne room next, thinking that Arthur might have moved on to another one of his favorite thinking spots.

Merlin was glad that there were few guards running about the place, all of them occupied with the preparations for battle; they undoubtedly would have felt the need to escort him around and keep an eye on him under the pretense of protection, and he just wasn’t in the mood for that. He did pass by a few servants whom he had worked with for years. They skirted around him, heads down, and did not acknowledge Merlin’s attempts at a greeting.

The throne room was empty when Merlin reached it, no Arthur leaning against the column by the window and looking out over the courtyard as he was so wont to do when he was preoccupied with his thoughts. Merlin sighed—of course Arthur would be hard to find now of all times—and made it halfway back out of the door when an idea struck him. He turned back and peered around the room, intrigued by the possibility that had occurred to him.

With a wave of his hand, he said, “Gebodaþ mè þæs ofercymes Morgane.” A golden light shimmered in the doorway before fading away to nothing, leaving no evidence that any spell had been cast. Satisfied with his work, he nodded and turned in the direction of the only other place that he could think for Arthur to be. As soon as he was within hearing distance of Arthur’s chambers, he could make out the clattering of armour and the murmur of voices.

“It’s fine, George. No, just…Will you just—I’ll do it myself, George,” Arthur said, sounding positively irate.

“But, sire—”

“ _I will do it myself_ ,” Arthur repeated. Merlin could practically hear George’s put-upon sigh, though George was far too well trained to ever make such an audible noise of displeasure with his master.

“If that will be all, sire,” he said, ever so politely.

“Yes, George, that will be all.”

“As you wish, sire. Your sword and your cloak, sire, have been left upo—”

“ _Go,_ George _._ ”

Merlin had to stifle his laugh behind his hand as George came scurrying out of the room and off down the corridor with his metaphorical tail between his legs. Merlin heard more clanking of metal against metal and soft cursing as Arthur attempted to get himself into his armour without assistance, a feat Merlin knew to be almost impossible without the use of magic. Merlin let himself into Arthur’s chambers the way he always had—completely unannounced—and leaned against a bedpost to watch Arthur struggle with the armour, unaware of his presence. After a moment of silent amusement, he composed his face into the most innocent expression he could possibly manage.

“So, I take it you and George are getting along well?” he asked lightly. Arthur answered without missing a beat, apparently not the least bit surprised to find that Merlin was in his chambers.

“If that man calls me ‘sire’ one more damn time, I’m going to bloody well hit him,” he swore, reaching around his back in a clumsy attempt to buckle on his own chest plate. Merlin rolled his eyes and moved forward to bat his hand out of the way.

“You were always complaining that I wasn’t respectful enough,” Merlin said, fastening the plate into place.

“That was just for the sake of berating you,” Arthur said. “I didn’t actually _want_ you to be respectful all the time. That much respect is incredibly annoying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Merlin chuckled.

They became quiet then, falling easily into the routine that they had kept for so many years. Merlin’s fingers were nimble and quick on the various buckles and straps, tightening them to exactly the right fit without any thought at all. Two months of absence had done nothing to erase eleven years’ worth of habit. The familiarity of it was a comfort to them both after all the upheavals and drastic changes of the previous months and neither one felt the need to break the companionable silence.

As Merlin worked his way around to fastening on Arthur’s vambraces, he caught sight of the communication charm he had tied around Arthur’s wrist the day before. He ran his thumb along the smooth metal disk, feeling the dips and grooves of the runes carved into its surface and the thrum of the magic contained within it.

“You truly don’t…I mean, you’re really…alright with this?” he asked hesitantly, not raising his eyes from Arthur’s vambraces. He did not specify what it was that he was asking about, but Arthur did not need him to.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I think I am.”

“You think?” Merlin asked, glancing up at him. Arthur took his time before he answered, weighing the question in his mind.

“I’m still getting used to it, honestly,” he said eventually. “But I do not fear magic, not like I did before. I have had two months since you left to think on it all. And I have done a lot of thinking, and a lot of reading, and even more listening.”

He pulled his wrist out of Merlin’s grip and waited until Merlin had no choice but to meet his gaze. “After everything that I have learned, everything that Gaius has told me…” He shook his head, apparently at a loss to describe what he was feeling. “I can no longer believe that magic is evil. Not when there are people like you.” Arthur was looking at him like he had hung the moon in the sky, like he was everything that was good and right in the world, and it made Merlin’s stomach clench uncomfortably because it simply wasn’t true.

“I am no saint, Arthur,” he whispered. “I have done my share of bad things.”

“Haven’t we all?” Arthur asked.

Merlin shook his head. It wasn’t the same, it just wasn’t. The things that he had done, the lives that had been lost because of him, were enough to make him sick if he allowed himself to stop and think about it. He still awoke in a cold sweat from dreams of seeing Morgana’s horrified face, of feeling her gasping for breath in his arms as his poison did its work. He could still hear the screams of the people who had been struck down by Kilgharrah’s flames and the snap of Agravaine’s neck against the stone floor of the tunnel in which Merlin had ended his life. Merlin didn’t realize that he had ducked his head in shame until he felt Arthur’s hand on his shoulder, but he could not bring himself to lift it again.

“I know you to be a good man, Merlin,” Arthur said, the gentleness of his tone nearly bringing tears to Merlin’s eyes. “Probably the best I have ever known. But even the best of men make mistakes. And I have no doubt that all of yours were made with the purest of intentions.”

Merlin swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, trying to blink away the sting in his eyes; he did not want to cry in front of Arthur again, not over something like this. What was done was done, and there would never be any way of reversing the harm he had caused. The only thing for him to do was to accept it, and to try to atone for his crimes by doing as much good as he possibly could.

“I only ever wanted to keep you safe,” he said. It was a weak defense, but it was all that he had. Arthur’s wellbeing had always been his first priority. Arthur chuckled a bit.

“Well, I think you did a pretty good job of it, don’t you?” he asked, gesturing to himself. He was alive and well, not missing any important bits. He was still sane and relatively happy. A small smile made its way onto Merlin’s face.

“Yeah, I guess I did alright,” he allowed.

Arthur opened his mouth to say something else, perhaps to jibe Merlin for being overly emotional again, but his next words were drowned out by the sudden clang of the alarm bells. They stood frozen for a moment, too shocked by the abruptness of the brazen warning to comprehend what it meant; Morgana had started her charge. The attack had begun. Then, Arthur snatched up his sword from the table and belted it around his waist. He turned to Merlin and held out his arm, his face set in determination. Merlin grasped it.

“If we fight, we fight together,” Arthur said.

“Always,” Merlin swore.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

By the time that the two of them had reached the end of the corridor, the sounds of battle began to reach their ears, the clashing of swords and the shouting of spells blending together into a muted, unintelligible roar even from such a distance. The castle corridors were empty, the serving staff all having gone home to their families and the guards having left to join in the battle.

They knew that the mages Merlin had brought with him from Carthis were ranged along the top of the battlements, weaving their protective spells from there with trusted Camelot guards at their backs on the off chance that enemy soldiers did make it into the citadel, but there was no one roaming the halls. Their progress was not impeded until they were met at the entrance by Sir Gwaine, who had already forsaken his voluminous red cloak in favor of having better mobility in battle.

“Gwaine, report,” Arthur ordered brusquely, continuing out of the double doors and down the steps and trusting that Gwaine and Merlin would follow in his wake. The fighting had not yet reached the city, staying mostly confined to the wide open areas outside the city proper, but there was a good chance the battle would spread to the city walls, if not into the city itself if Morgana’s men fought hard enough.

“There are at least two thousand men,” Gwaine said. “Mercenaries, for the most part.”

“And sorcerers?” Merlin asked.

“Plenty of them,” Gwaine confirmed. “Started slinging spells as soon as they crossed the city limits. But it doesn’t seem to be anything your men can’t handle.” A certain pride swelled in Merlin’s chest, maybe more than was warranted seeing as he had had no hand in training the mages under his command, but that fact did nothing to quell the gratified feeling.

“The front line is holding?” Arthur asked.

“No one has broken through yet,” Gwaine said. “You were right, Merlin, in thinking that Morgana wouldn’t expect us to be prepared for her. If she had, she would have brought a larger fighting force. And she probably wouldn’t have tried to waltz in through the front door either.”

“Overconfidence has always been a problem of hers,” Arthur said grimly.

“Well, she certainly didn’t anticipate us having the magic to counter her sorcerers,” Gwaine continued. “None of their spells are doing the slightest bit of good, not with your mages to hold down the defensive line.”

“Good,” Merlin said. Halfway across the courtyard, he saw a swirl of blue cloak and a mop of dark curls heading in the opposite direction and recognized it to be Mordred. Merlin flagged him down and the young knight—mage, now, he should probably say—came jogging toward them. “Mordred, how goes it up on the battlements?”

“The protective spells are all in place. Even if they get through the front line, and all the knights at the gates, and fight their way up to the castle walls, there’s no way any of them are going to get through those,” Mordred said. “The only person we’ll have to worry about breaking through is Morgana; she would be the only one strong enough to overcome all the mages who put power into these enchantments.”

“I’ll worry about that myself if the time comes,” Merlin said. He clapped Mordred on the shoulder. “Well done, Mordred. Keep up the good work.” Mordred smiled and took off toward the citadel once more. “Oh, and Mordred!” Merlin called. “Watch your back, will you?” But Mordred just laughed.

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll get Lady Cecily to watch my back for me,” he called and Merlin laughed as well. He turned back to see the raised eyebrows from both Arthur and Gwaine.

“Lady Cecily?” Arthur asked, sounding a bit skeptical that a woman could be that much of a defense.

“A formidable sorceress,” he explained. “And a damn good swordswoman to boot. I wouldn’t worry about either of them. Come on.”

He led the way toward the sounds of battle, Arthur and Gwaine falling into step on either side of him. Almost as soon as they passed through the gates and caught sight of the hordes of mercenaries attempting to force their way through the front line there were enemies advancing on them. Without a second’s hesitation, Arthur and Gwaine drew their swords and charged forward. Merlin forewent his sword for the time being in favor raising his hands before him, throwing out a spell at the first person who came into his line of sight. The man went sprawling backwards with a yell and Merlin turned his attention to the next, forcing him back as well.

Everything moved far too quickly for him to keep track of, a rush of bodies and loud cries. Soon, he had lost sight of Gwaine completely, but that did not surprise him in the least and he wasn’t worried about it; Gwaine was nearly as talented a swordsman as Arthur was and there were few who could stand before him in battle. After a few minutes, Merlin found himself back to back with Arthur once more.

“Alright there, Merlin?” Arthur called over his shoulder, dispatching his current foe with a neat jab in the stomach.

“Never better,” Merlin shouted back.

He was incredibly glad now that he had taken Mordred up on his offer of joining in the mages’ training. He would never have been able to fight like this, using magic in open combat, if he hadn’t. Now the offensive incantations came as easily to his lips as the subtly hampering spells that had made up his repertoire before he had come to Carthis, when he had worked primarily from the shadows.

Since they had joined the fight, as many men had fallen to Merlin’s magic as had to Arthur’s sword, and that was something that Merlin had never expected he would be able to boast. But it felt very right to be here, fighting at Arthur’s side like this. It brought about a fierce sort of joy that kept his spirits up in spite of the violence and death all around him; he had never been very fond of battle, and being made more adept at it had not changed that about him. He could fight and kill when he needed to, but he would never enjoy it as some did.

One more opponent fell to his spells and it occurred to him that he should probably preserve his energy for the most important battle that was yet to come; it would not be a good thing if he managed to exhaust himself before he came face to face with Morgana; she was far too powerful for him to risk confronting when he was not at full strength. He had found long ago that keeping up the constant barrage of curses and hexes was more of a drain than maintaining a single spell, so Merlin waved a hand expansively and a glittering golden shield sprung up in its wake, creating a barrier that would protect his and Arthur’s flank but which did not enclose them completely. Arthur glanced over his shoulder at it in surprise but did not stop to comment on its sudden appearance, instead simply reorienting himself so that the shield was at his back.

Merlin drew his sword from its scabbard and took up position at Arthur’s side. Before his time in Carthis, he would have been worried about fighting with a sword, but it felt much more at home in his hand now than it ever had before. He had spent many years scraping his way through skirmishes with subpar swordsmanship and the indirect use of magic, but he did not feel the need to subvert his own fighting anymore. The clash of steel against steel was not quite as jarring as it once had seemed, the ebb and flow of the fight less foreign. He dispatched one, two, three opponents in a row without needing to stop for breath. He could practically feel Arthur’s astonishment even as Arthur’s attention was diverted elsewhere.

“You’ve improved, Merlin,” he said when there was a lull in the fighting, wiping sweat from his brow; it was an understatement, Merlin knew, but he appreciated Arthur’s tact in not pointing out just how bad he had been with a sword a few short months ago. Merlin dabbed at his brow as well, wondering if he should abandon his cloak as Gwaine had done; cloaks were very majestic and impressive for day to day wear, but they were stiflingly hot and not very good as far as range of movement went.

“Mordred’s been training me,” he said by way of explanation. “He’s a much more patient teacher than you ever were.”

Arthur opened his mouth, looking indignant, but he was prevented from answering by a sword swinging towards his face. He blocked it hastily and allowed himself to be swallowed up by the battle once more, slipping into that place of hyperawareness and single-minded focus that made him such an incredibly dangerous opponent. Merlin followed his lead, putting all conscious thought out of his head and focusing only on the physical things, the slight burn in his muscles, the thumping of his heart, the drag of air through his lungs, the almost-painful jolt that went through his arms with every clash of sword against sword.

They had been fighting for several long minutes when it became clear that the dynamic of the battle was changing. There seemed to be more and more opponents with every moment that passed, two foes replacing each one that he cut down. Morgana must have realized that the odds were not in her favor, that she did not have the element of surprise like she had thought she would, and sent in more men to turn the tide.

He and Arthur were forced back against Merlin’s shield by the wave of men, struggling to hold their own against the influx of combatants. Merlin’s arms were aching by now, unaccustomed to the prolonged sword use, and he could see a sheen of sweat on Arthur’s brow, which was furrowed in intense concentration. Finally, Merlin forced his opponent back and quickly pulled the shield in until it collapsed into a dome around them.

“What the—?” Arthur spluttered in confusion, suddenly cut off from the person whom he had been facing. “Merlin, what are you doing?”

“You may want to hold onto something,” Merlin advised, sinking down into a crouch. Arthur, catching sight of his expression, wisely braced himself against the shield in anticipation of whatever it was that Merlin was going to do. Merlin placed one hand flat against the barrier, forging a stronger connection and compartmentalizing the energy required to maintain that spell, and reached for another thread of magic. Raising his other hand high, he roared out, “Àhrère eorðan beneoðan min ealdorgewinnan!” and slammed it down.

  
Art by dawn-rot ([x](http://dawn-rot.tumblr.com/post/153503654276/photogif-of-merlin-for-clotpolesonlys-to-be-a))

The ground buckled under his palm, heaving violently. The shock wave rolled out and slammed into the men who had been trying to break through the shield, throwing them off of their feet. Merlin heard Arthur’s shout of alarm as the earth pitched and rolled under him, but he did not respond. Cracks appeared in the earth’s surface, spreading outward with alarming rapidity, and he made no move to stop them this time.

The mercenaries and sorcerers scrambled to get out of the way as the fissures widened, the ground opening up beneath their feet. Not all of them were quick enough, and dozens disappeared into the gaping crevices, swallowed up by the dank earth. The rest retreated in a blind panic, forcing their way through the battle in their haste to escape the terrifying fate that had befallen their comrades. With no enemies to hold back anymore, Merlin let the shield fall, brushing off the dirt from his hands on his trousers as he stood. He turned to see Arthur gaping at him.

“What?” Merlin asked rather defensively, shuffling his feet and feeling a bit self-conscious at the massive outpouring of power that Arthur had just borne witness to. It was not that he was not used to being the center of attention—he had become quite accustomed to it over his time in Carthis, oddity that he was—but being under such scrutiny from Arthur of all people, when he had spent so long and gone to such lengths to keep him from knowing of his magic at all, was a bit disconcerting.  Arthur seemed to pull himself out of his daze with a shake of his head.

“Nothing, just— Well. Hearing ‘ _most powerful warlock_ ’ is one thing, but seeing it is another,” he said apologetically. “Just a bit of a shock, that’s all. It might take a little getting used to.” Merlin scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“Sorry? What are you sorry for, you dolt?” Arthur asked incredulously. “You just saved both of our lives and sent a good portion of Morgana’s army into a full retreat. What on earth is there for you to be sorry for?”

“Force of habit, I supposed,” he said with a shrug. Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Come on then,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the gates; the fighting had spread into the city as more and more of Morgana’s men forced their way past the front lines. Merlin made to follow him, but Arthur stopped in his tracks, looking back over the cracked and upheaved earth that had been left in the wake of Merlin’s spell with a frown. “You  _can_  put that right, can’t you?” he asked. It was Merlin’s turn to roll his eyes then.

“Yes, of course I can put it right,” he said petulantly. “What do you take me for?”

“An idiot, what else?” Arthur quipped, and he took off toward the castle before Merlin could retort. Merlin followed with little more than a grumble, drawing his sword once more as they came upon more adversaries.

He spotted Gwaine again, engaged with two vicious-looking men but holding his own admirably. He saw Percival lift a man bodily from the ground and toss him into a crowd, knocking over another five men in the process. Leon and Elyan were back to back with Mordred and Lady Cecily, the mages deflecting the spells of the enemy sorcerers long enough for the knights to take them down. That was not the only instance of that sort of teamwork to be seen and Merlin’s heart swelled with pride until he felt that he might choke on it. To see the people of Camelot and Carthis fighting together, steel and magic working side by side in harmony, was more than he had ever dreamed possible, and yet here it was, all around him.

He threw himself into the fray with more vigor than ever before, fighting both with sword and with magic. He ceased to plan out his attacks after a while, letting instinct and training take over to the point where he did not have to consciously think at all. He simply allowed himself to move and found that he was actually directing the flow of battle around him, something that he had heard Arthur speak of but had not understood until this point. He did not know how long he had been fighting—time seemed to run together—but it had to have been well over an hour, at least, by the time that something happened to break him from his single-minded focus.

It was like an alarm went off in his head, his magic clanging inside him in distress. The jolt of it broke his concentration in midstride and sent him crashing to his knees, his sword falling from his hand as he struggled to recover from his disorientation. Arthur was close enough to block the blow that flew toward him, which he would have missed in his distraction, and cut down the mercenary he had been fighting before hauling him to his feet again.

“Merlin! What is it?” he demanded, immediately scanning him for injuries. Merlin did not answer immediately, the strange ringing of his magic still reverberating in his head and blocking out his thoughts. It took a long moment for Merlin to realize what it as that he had just felt, but then he gasped. “What, Merlin, what is it?” Arthur repeated a bit frantically.

“Morgana has breached the citadel,” Merlin breathed out.

“ _What_?” Arthur yelped.

“The throne room. Morgana is in the throne room,” Merlin said, urgently now. “Come on, let’s go. There’s no time to lose.” He recalled his sword to his hand with a stray tendril of magic and set off through the crowd without waiting to make sure that Arthur was following him. Morgana was there, she was in the castle right now, probably claiming Arthur’s throne as her own yet again. It had to stop. The fighting, the quests for revenge, the bitterness and the hatred, all of it. He had to end this, he was the only one who could. He would put a stop to this here and now.

“Hold on a moment,” Arthur said, grasping Merlin’s arm and pulling him to a stop before he could disappear into the throng of bodies and swords and spells. “What on earth are you talking about, Merlin? How do you know where Morgana is?”

“I placed a spell on the throne room,” Merlin said quickly; they didn’t have time for this conversation. Morgana was already there, probably waiting for them. “It was meant to alert me if Morgana entered the chamber. And she has, and it did, so let’s go.” He set off again even though Arthur had not released his arm and succeeded in dragging Arthur along with him. Arthur cursed vehemently but followed in his wake as they forced their way through the battle.

Mercenaries and sorcerers alike fell before them in droves and, wisely enough, no one pursued them when they reached the castle steps. They raced through the empty corridors, gratified to see that none of Morgana’s foot soldiers had breached the citadel walls. The surge of pride that came over Merlin upon seeing just how effective his mages were was effectively doused when they reached the throne room and found two guards slumped at the base of the closed doors, obviously dead and without a mark on them. Merlin stepped forward determinedly but Arthur pulled him to a stop.

“I want to speak with her alone,” he said in that firm way that meant he expected to obeyed. That tone had never worked on Merlin when he was a servant and it certainly wouldn’t work on him now.

“You  _what_?” he demanded.

“I want to—”

“No, Arthur. No  _way_  am I letting you go in there alone!” Merlin said.

“Merlin, she doesn’t know you’re here. She’s knows there are sorcerers, but she thinks I would never consent to ally myself with you. You’re my secret weapon, and I don’t want to clue her in to your presence until I absolutely have to.”

“Arthur, she’s dangerous. With magic like hers, she could strike you down in a second. You have practically no chance of defeating her alone, no matter how good you are with a sword,” Merlin said insistently, trying to impress upon Arthur the lunacy of what he was proposing. Arthur was going to get himself killed trying to do this single-handedly. What happened to standing together in the face of their enemies? But Arthur’s resolute expression softened a bit and he glanced down for a moment, looking somehow younger in that moment.

“I need to talk with her, Merlin. She’s still my sister,” he said softly. Merlin deflated almost immediately; he had always had trouble resisting Arthur’s puppy-dog eyes. “You’ll be right outside the door. I can signal you in a second if I need help,” he said quickly, holding up his wrist to show the communication charm. Merlin did not bother to point out that, if Morgana was really trying to kill him, Arthur was likely to be dead long before he managed to get a signal out. Instead, he held up his hands in surrender.

“Alright. Fine. Go get yourself killed, see what I care,” he said grumpily.

Arthur raised an eyebrow at his easy capitulation; he had expected Merlin to put up much more of a fight, surely, but Merlin had a trick or two up his sleeve. There was no way in hell he was letting Arthur go in to face Morgana by himself, but Arthur didn’t have to know that. “I’ll be right here. The second I hear anything that sounds like a fight, I’m coming in, and your heart-to-heart be damned,” he said, trying to sound disgruntled at being left out. Arthur nodded with a small, grateful smile that made Merlin feel the tiniest bit uncomfortable for his plan to insinuate himself into what was probably supposed to be a private moment.

Then Arthur pushed against the doors to the throne room and they opened with an ominous creak. Immediately, Merlin waved a hand over himself, murmuring, “Áhýde mé heáfodsiéne.” He felt the ripple down his spine, like the trickle of cold water across his skin, that meant he had done the spell properly; while they had yet to perfect weaving the spell into the cloth of a cloak, Merlin had become quite proficient at making himself invisible without the garment. With only the slightest hint of guilt at the subterfuge—he was not going to allow Arthur to put himself in danger, to go in without backup—Merlin slipped in through the throne room door with Arthur and allowed it to fall shut behind him.

The sight that met his eyes was not an unexpected one. Morgana was alone, in the same torn black lace dress as always, and lounging easily in the throne. She had a sword in her hand, presumably taken off of one of the unfortunate guards she had killed, and she was cleaning underneath her nails with the tip of it, completely unconcerned.

She looked up when the doors opened and a grin spread across her face as Arthur strode into the room, seemingly unaccompanied. Merlin fell back to stand a few paces behind Arthur, careful to keep his steps light enough that they did not echo in the cavernous chamber and give away his presence.

“Fancy seeing you here, brother dear,” Morgana said lightly, as if they had just run into each other in the marketplace and not in the throne room of a besieged kingdom.

“This needs to end, Morgana,” Arthur said, but she ignored him.

“I have to say, I expected you to fight back, but certainly not like this,” Morgana continued as if he had not spoken at all, “I always knew that you were a spineless coward, Arthur, but I never would have pegged you for a hypocrite. Burning sorcerers in the square in times of peace and then exploiting them when it suits you? That’s low, Arthur, even for a Pendragon.”

“There have been no burnings since I became king. The pyre belonged solely to my father’s reign,” Arthur said. There had been few executions at all, Merlin recalled, and then only when the crimes were evident and the sentence unavoidable. Unlike his father, who had wanted magic users to suffer for their sins, Arthur did not enjoy taking life, no matter the crime committed, and he preferred to do so in the most humane way possible. Beheading was merciful when compared to an agonizing death by fire.

“And you think that exonerates you?” Morgana asked, scoffing lightly. “The blood on your hands will not be washed off so easily.”

“And what of the blood on yours?” Arthur retorted. “You began this war, Morgana, not me.”

“I didn’t start this,” Morgana said sharply. “I simply fought back against the reign of terror Uther instigated over my kind.” Her sprawling position on Arthur’s throne was not nearly so languid now, the tension growing with her anger. The sword was tight in her grip, but she made no move to use it. “If I hadn’t, I would surely be dead by now.”

“Would you?” Arthur shook his head. “Morgana, if you had simply come to me in the beginning. Do you really think I would have turned you away?”

“You mean like you did Merlin?” she shot back. Arthur flinched and Merlin knew that she had struck a low blow. A smile curled on her face as she saw the same thing. She slid from the throne in one fluid motion and cocked her head to the side.

“Merlin,” she purred, gliding toward him. The tip of her sword dragged along the floor, sparking against the stones. “Sweet, innocent,  _loyal_  Merlin. Who would have thought that he’d be such a liar?”

She circled Arthur slowly, watching him with sharp, cruel eyes. Arthur did not rise to the bait, though Merlin could see how tightly his jaw was clenched and the way his hands were curled into fists at his sides. “Don’t feel too bad, brother. He lied to me too. At least we have that much in common.” She laughed, low and throaty, as she came up close behind him. She leaned in to speak directly into his ear and Merlin itched to pull Arthur away from her. “Tell me, Arthur. How does it feel to be betrayed by everyone you ever held dear?”

“Merlin never betrayed me,” Arthur said immediately, and Merlin was a little taken aback at the fierceness of the claim, though his heart swelled to hear it. It gave Morgana pause as well. She drew back around him slowly and surveyed him through a narrowed gaze. Arthur held his ground, eyes blazing.

“Well, well, Arthur. Defending a sorcerer? What would Uther think?” she said tauntingly.

“I’m sure our father would be horrified by us both,” Arthur said. Morgana’s blasé expression hardened considerably.

“Gorlois was my father,” she said icily.

“And what would Gorlois think of you now? Do you think he would be proud of what you’ve become?” Merlin shifted on his feet, readying himself as Morgana bared her teeth in a snarl.

“I have become what I needed to in order to survive,” Morgana growled. “I am what Uther made of me.”

“And you are more like him than I ever was.”

“Uther is no father of mine!” Morgana shrieked suddenly.

“If Uther is not your father, then you have no right to his kingdom,” Arthur said, un-intimidated even as sparks of magic formed unconsciously in Morgana’s free hand. “You cannot deny his name one day and claim his throne the next. Is that not hypocrisy as well?”

“You do not deserve this throne any more than Uther did,” she said, ignoring his words entirely. “Gutless murderers, the both of you, slaughtering everyone who disagrees with you.”

“And you think you’re any better?” Arthur demanded. “You ordered innocent civilians shot to force my knights to bow to you. You are no different from Uther!” And suddenly Morgana’s sword was at his throat, forcing him a step back. Merlin nearly blasted her off her feet right then, but she made no move to slit Arthur’s throat. She was painfully still, the violent anger from earlier in the confrontation abruptly gone.

“Careful what you say, Arthur,” she said, almost sweetly. “I’m afraid you’re at a bit of a disadvantage.” She lifted the blade slightly so that it forced Arthur’s chin up, exposing his throat more fully, and Merlin held his breath, his eager magic making his fingertips burn. “But I’m feeling generous today,” she said after a long pause. She stepped back and gestured for Arthur to arm himself. “One duel, for old times’ sake. I won’t even use magic. Cross my heart.”

Merlin held his breath as Arthur deliberated. A part of him wanted Arthur to refuse her, to use the communication charm to call for him, but another part—the part that had convinced him to allow Arthur the chance to speak with her in the first place—acknowledged that Arthur needed this. Morgana’s descent into darkness had hurt them all, surely, but it was Arthur whom she had betrayed most, Arthur whose kingdom she coveted, and Arthur whose life she repeatedly threatened. It might be that she was fated to die by Merlin’s hand, but Arthur deserved to face her as much as Merlin did. And so Merlin stayed his hand and waited for Arthur to decide.

The first crash of steel on steel made Merlin cringe, but he did not intervene. He would not step in until the first spell had been cast, until Arthur was clearly out of his depth. Morgana was a talented swordswoman, she always had been, but Arthur was more than a match for her when it came down to steel and sinew. She was keeping her promise, for now at least, and not employing magic to turn the tide of the battle in her favor. She blocked and parried and lunged in tandem with Arthur, the two of them moving so quickly that it looked like a well-choreographed dance.

Merlin moved closer to watch more carefully but neither of them seemed able to get the upper hand. Their blades locked together for a moment and when Morgana pushed Arthur off, she managed to knock him the slightest bit off balance. It wasn’t enough to provide her with an opening, but she smirked anyway.

“Remind you of the time when I used to beat you?” she said smugly, and Merlin sighed heavily, a dull ache taking up residence in his chest; the last time he had heard her say that had been in Ealdor nearly ten years ago. It had been funny then, light and teasing despite the battle raging around them. Now it felt like a blow of its own, and Arthur’s huff of near-laughter contrasted sharply with the pained grimaced on his face.

“That  _still_  never happened,” he shot back, though he sounded a bit choked.

Then Morgana threw herself at him again and the moment of nostalgia was past, replaced once more with the fury of combat. Though Arthur was by far the better swordsman, Morgana’s volatility made it difficult for Arthur to predict her movements as he usually could. She lashed out quick as a striking viper without any warning, she feinted twice in the same direction without ever trying to land a blow, she retreated in the middle of a maneuver and left Arthur stumbling through a block against a sword that was no longer there. It was maddening, and yet she still could not break through Arthur’s defenses.

Merlin watched anxiously, his magic thrumming under his skin and jumping whenever Morgana’s blade came anywhere near Arthur, but he held himself in. This was Arthur’s fight, he reminded himself, and he would not thank Merlin for interfering. The sounds of battle floated up from the courtyard, growing louder by the minute, but Merlin could not afford to look away from the duel at hand. He paid them no heed until a piercing shriek rang out over the noise, followed by hoarse cries and shouts of panic. When a wave of what was unmistakably fire shot past the throne room’s windows Merlin’s attention was finally diverted.

“Is that…?” Arthur gasped, seeing a huge form sparkling white in the mid-afternoon sunlight. He paid for his lapse in concentration when Morgana nearly took his arm off with a wild swing of her sword, a manic grin on her face.

“Not even your ill-gotten sorcerers can stop a dragon,” she crowed triumphantly, forcing Arthur back with a flurry of blows.

“Maybe not,” Merlin said grimly, letting his invisibility spell fall as he crossed determinedly to the window. “But I can.” Morgana sputtered indignantly at his sudden appearance, but Merlin ignored her; he could not remain hidden when one of his kin was raining flames down upon innocent people. Aithusa was his responsibility and he would be damned if he allowed anyone else to die by dragon fire. Merlin left Arthur to distract Morgana, pushing open the window and roaring to the sky. “ _Nun de ge dei s’eikein kai emois epe’essin hepesthai!_ ”

Aithusa shrieked again, writhing in the air as he fought against the command, but he could not disobey his Lord. The white dragon turned and disappeared over the trees to the east, toward Carthis and Kilgharrah as Merlin had ordered.

“No!” Morgana screamed. She raised a hand to Merlin’s back, obviously intending to avenge herself the loss of her loyal friend.

Arthur took advantage of her distraction and lunged forward, knocking the sword from her other hand and catching her across the side. It wasn’t a mortal wound, hardly worth the pain it caused, but it was enough to send her sprawling across the ground. Arthur leveled his sword at her chest and sent an irritated look at Merlin, who hastened to his side and gave him an apologetic shrug. Arthur rolled his eyes but did not seem overly upset at the deception. They both turned their attention back to their fallen foe, who was looking between them with wide, wild eyes.

“No!” she repeated. “He’s a traitor, Arthur! How can you stand by his side?”

“I told you before, Morgana,” Arthur said staunchly. “Merlin never betrayed me. The only traitor here is you.”

Morgana tried to push herself off the ground, but she found that both Arthur’s sword and Merlin’s raised hand were keeping her where she was. Her hand, the one not clutching at her wounded side, strayed to her necklace, clutching it tightly in what seemed to be a gesture of comfort. It made her look small and vulnerable, more like the person she used to be so long ago.

“I’m sorry that things have to end this way, Morgana,” Merlin said, his voice heavy with the regret that only years of mistakes could bring. “I blame myself for what you’ve become.”

“I wish that things could have been different,” Arthur said. “That you could be standing with us, rather than against us.” What regret and compassion had still lingered on Arthur’s face dissipated, leaving behind a mask of resignation and resolve. His sword was steady, aimed as it was at her heart. “But the time for leniency and forgiveness has long since passed. And after all the harm you have caused, there is but one course of action left to us.”

Whatever he had intended to say next was cut off when light began to seep between Morgana’s fingers where they were clutched at her neck. She released her hold and looked down at the talisman. Merlin and Arthur looked at it too. Merlin gasped in horror; that pendant, carved with delicate runes and emitting a faint white light, was chillingly familiar. He bore an identical pendant around his own wrist, and Arthur did as well. His mind ground to a halt at the disturbing realization, confusion and disbelief fighting against the sight before him. But even stunned as he was, Merlin could hardly fail to miss the wicked smile that spread across Morgana’s face as she raised her eyes to meet his.

“Well. If I can’t have Arthur’s kingdom,” she drawled, “then I guess I’ll just have to settle for yours.”

She pulled from her pocket another shockingly familiar object, a tricolored amulet on a leather cord, once again ringed in runes. She held it in her hand and began to chant, speaking so quickly that, by the time Merlin had recovered from the shock of seeing a transportation crystal—his own invention—in the hands of his enemy, she was already engulfed in a swirl of wind and magic. It was only then, in the stark silence that followed her disappearance, that Merlin’s thoughts unfroze and began whirring at rather alarming speeds.

How had Morgana gotten her hands on a transportation crystal? Merlin had invented them himself a scant few weeks ago. There were only so many in existence, and they certainly had not begun to trade with them yet. As far as Merlin knew, knowledge of them had yet to even cross the border, much less have time to reach Morgana’s ear.

And even more confusing and worrisome than that, she had a communication charm. Those charms had only been functional for a maximum of three days and there couldn’t be more than a dozen of them made yet. How on earth had she gotten her hands on one of them in that short a time? Merlin had only learned of them the night before from his cousin, and Ellison had only known because his father was the one who—

Merlin gasped, his hand flying to his temple as a spike of pain shot through his skull. Arthur was calling his name, or perhaps Arthur had been calling him for a while, but he was too busy searching his mind for the cause of the sudden sting. It took him precious moments to recognize it for what it was, but horror flooded him when he did. Morgana had crossed the Barrier into Carthis. He knew her aura well enough to sense her passage through it, the dark wrongness of her magic like a nail in his skull.

Merlin grasped at his hair, trying to draw the disparate facts together as Arthur continued to try and get his attention, sounding more concerned by the minute as Merlin failed to respond to his words. Morgana had gotten hold of items that she should have had no access to. She had Merlin’s own invention, and an even more recent development that even the king had not known about. She had crossed into his kingdom.

No, she had been  _let into_  his kingdom. But by whom? Only a select few had the authority to open a passage through the Barrier. Even fewer had access to the transportation crystals and knowledge of the communication charms. And of that small number, only one had reason to betray him.

“Lord Tennison.”


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

“What? Merlin, what are you talking about? Who is Lord Tennison?” Arthur demanded.

“He’s the traitor in my court who’s let Morgana into my kingdom,” Merlin growled, red seeping into the edges of his vision. He fumbled to pull his own transportation crystal from underneath his chainmail, his hands shaking in his anger. Merlin latched onto Arthur’s arm with an iron grip and spat out the spell so quickly that he was vaguely surprised it didn’t go horribly wrong.

The sensation of being spun at dizzying speeds and simultaneously sucked through a very tight tunnel with no air to be had was never a pleasant one, but Merlin had become accustomed to it since learning the spell a few weeks ago. Arthur, on the other hand, had not had so much as a warning of what was to happen. As such, he pulled himself free from Merlin’s grip the second their feet had slammed into solid ground and lurched away, looking as though he might be sick. He managed to hold onto the contents of his stomach, although he did throw a very nasty look over his shoulder.

“A little warning would’ve been nice, Merlin,” he panted.

“Sorry, but we don’t really have the time,” Merlin said, too antsy to be very apologetic at the moment. He strode forward, looking for the Barrier.

He heard Arthur’s gasp before he saw the telltale incandescent shimmer stretching from the forest floor up into the sky as far as he could see and further. It was the sort of thing that was hard to spot if one didn’t know exactly what to look for, translucent as it was. It almost had the look of a gigantic soap bubble, but when Merlin pressed a hand to its surface, it was as solid and impassable as glass. Merlin reached out with his magic, letting it twine into the Barrier itself and join the thrum of power he and the Priests had placed there.

“Ábene þæt geat ætýnan ær mé,” Merlin breathed out and the Barrier heeded his command.

The solid plane melted away beneath his fingers, a nearly imperceptible break in the smooth surface just large enough for the two of them to pass through. He turned to gesture to Arthur, who was a bit pale and staring up at the enormous dome with a rather awestruck expression. Merlin rolled his eyes—they didn’t have time for Arthur to be overcome with wonder at his magic at the moment, he would have plenty of time to gape later—and tugged him through the gateway just in time for it to seal itself behind them.

“Sorry, Arthur, but you’re gonna have to suffer through it one more time,” Merlin said, taking up the transport crystal again, but Arthur promptly slapped it out of his hand. Merlin stared at him in affront, but Arthur was looking peeved and stubborn.

“No,” he said firmly. “Not until you tell me what the hell that was all about. And what just happened.” He jerked his head over his shoulder.

He still looked a little green around the gills, though he was steady on his feet; the nausea seemed to have passed, at least. Merlin was glad for that, really, and he would love to talk the afternoon away, but they just didn’t have the time to waste with such things. Morgana was in his kingdom. Chances were she had transported straight to the city walls like he had intended to do before Arthur had put his metaphorical foot down. She could already be wreaking havoc in his city and Merlin wasn’t there to put a stop to it.

“We don’t have time for this, Arthur,” Merlin snapped, reaching for the crystal again, but Arthur caught his wrist before he got there and held it.

“ _Mer_ lin,” he said.

The emphasis may have been the same as when he teased Merlin, the condescending sort of drawl that only Arthur could pull off, but the feeling behind the inflection was different. There was a worry that Merlin rarely heard there, an anxiety that only crept into his voice when he was going into a situation blind. Which he was, Merlin recognized. He hadn’t asked Arthur if he’d wanted to come with him on this. He could just as easily have left Arthur in his own kingdom, where a battle still raged, instead of dragging him along into another battle against someone he could hardly fight. With the danger he was putting Arthur in, Merlin owed him an explanation.

“That was a transportation spell,” he said, trying his best to keep his impatience out of his voice. “It’s not pleasant, I know, but you get used to it.”

“And that thing?” Arthur asked, gesturing to the dome behind them.

“That’s the Barrier. I mentioned it yesterday,” he said. “It’s a solid blockade that encompasses the main city for an hour in every direction. And it can only be opened by a handful of people, members of my council and my fighting force.”

“What happened back in the throne room?” Arthur pressed. “Morgana had one of those charms you gave me. Then she disappeared and you just sort of froze, I couldn’t get a word out of you.” Arthur would probably deny the concern in his voice but Merlin heard it clear as day and it made him squirm with guilt again to know that he was making Arthur worry so.

“You’re right, Arthur. She had that charm and she also had one of these.” Merlin held up his transportation crystal—by the string so that Arthur didn’t think he was trying to transport away and knock it from his hand again. “I invented this myself and I’ve been overseeing their production. She had no way of getting her hands on either of these things.”

“Unless she had someone on the inside,” Arthur provided. “You said that someone had let her in.”

“Lord Tennison,” Merlin said through gritted teeth. “He has access to the new innovations of the High Priests, he has the authority to open the Barrier, and he’s had a serious grudge against me since day one.”

“Why?” Arthur asked, looking thoroughly confused as to why anyone would bear ill will towards Merlin. That made Merlin roll his eyes, though a fond smile made its way onto his face anyway.

“Because he thinks I usurped his son,” Merlin said.

“Why would he think that?” Arthur asked, even more bewildered.

“Because I sort of did, in a way. Lord Ellison is my second cousin. And the council was willing to turn the kingdom over to him if Sir Gerund’s search for me didn’t pan out.”

“Oh. Yes, I guess that would do it.”

“Everything else can wait until later,” Merlin insisted. “Morgana’s likely already wormed her way into my castle; it wouldn’t be hard with Tennison at her side. Sorry about this, but there’s no other way to get there quickly.”

Arthur groaned as Merlin took up the crystal once more but didn’t complain as Merlin grasped his arm. He managed to maintain his balance upon landing this time, though he still looked a tad sick. But he just shook his head to clear it and gestured for Merlin to lead the way. As soon as the main gates opened to admit him, a blue-clad figure was rushing towards him. Merlin didn’t stop to meet him.

“Sir Galahad, report,” he said and the knight turned hastily to fall in step with him, mirroring Arthur’s position a half-step behind him.

“It’s the witch, my Lord. She has breached the citadel,” Galahad said.

“Casualties?” Merlin asked, dreading the answer.

“None that I know of, sire,” Galahad answered to Merlin’s surprise. Merlin’s sidelong glance prompted him to explain. “She was very focused on her goal. She wasn’t fighting, simply getting people out of her way. There are a plenty of injuries, but no fatalities so far.” Merlin nodded, relieved.

“Let’s see that it stays that way,” he said. “No one is to engage her. She is far too powerful, especially in her current state. She has nothing left to lose and that makes her dangerous.” Sir Galahad nodded.

“Sire…” he said, though he sounded reluctant to voice his thoughts. “She could not have broken through the Barrier herself.”

“I know, Galahad. Not even I could manage such a feat,” Merlin said.

“But that means that someone had to—”

“Lord Tennison has committed treason,” Merlin interrupted him, his tone unforgiving. “And he will be dealt with accordingly.”

Galahad remained silent for a moment as they stalked past a group of slumped figures in blue cloaks, a few servants with cloths and bandages scurrying among them and attempting to bring them around.

“Sir Galahad, give the order for the Barrier to be sealed,” Merlin ordered. “No one is to travel in or out of the city until the situation is under control. Then you are to take a patrol and scour the city. It is unlikely that Tennison smuggled in any other hostile parties but it is not a risk that we can afford to take.”

“Yes, sire.” Sir Galahad gave him as much of a bow as he could whilst walking so quickly and then turned back toward the gates to relay the instructions he had been given. Merlin led Arthur up the steps and into the palace proper, making his way through the wide, winding corridors with an ease and familiarity than belied how lost he had become in his first week or two.

Arthur kept pace with him but remained a step behind. Merlin wondered briefly if that was out of propriety, an acknowledgement that he was in Merlin’s kingdom and therefore Merlin’s status was technically superior to his, or simply because Merlin was leading the way. He didn’t have much time to think on it before they neared the throne room. Much like in Camelot, the guards were no longer standing at their posts but slumped on the ground, though Merlin was relatively certain that his guards, though unconscious, were still alive. The doors had been left open and the voices of those within met Merlin’s ears long before he and Arthur reached the entrance.

“Father,” came Ellison’s voice, shaky and uncertain. “How could you do this? How could you let  _her_  into the kingdom?”

“It is for the best, Ellison,” Tennison insisted.

“It is treason!” Ellison shouted back.

“With the Lady Morgana’s help, you will be restored to your rightful place upon the throne,” Tennison said with the fervor of a fanatic. Merlin quickened his pace, Arthur hastening along in his wake. “Once she has taken Camelot, Carthis will be yours to rule. As it should be.”

“No, father,” Ellison said, and Merlin reached the doorway in time to see him pull his arm out of his father’s grasp and stumble backwards. Morgana stood to the side, watching the family spat with a bored sort of amusement. “I don’t want to rule,” Ellison told his father. “Merlin is—”

“That boy is a  _disgrace_ ,” Tennison snarled, advancing on his son. “The peasant son of a coward and a fool. A bastard and a usurper, not fit to lick the dirt from your boots!”

“Merlin is a good man!” Ellison said fiercely. “And a better king than I could ever be. I’m sorry, father, but I will not depose him, no matter the power you offer me.” Morgana didn’t look so amused anymore. Her expression turned cold and she stepped between the two men, leveling her sharp gaze on the one standing in her way.

“Step aside, Ellison,” she said coldly. “I have no desire to harm you, and I will not do so unless you give me reason to.”

“Ellison, think about what you’re doing,” Tennison implored him from over Morgana’s shoulder.

Ellison looked between them, torn between horror, fear, and indecision. But one more glance told him all he needed to know: his father would not be persuaded from this path and Morgana would not take no for an answer. His features hardened into a mask of defiance. He raised a hand and threw a burst of energy at Morgana. She blocked it with ease, so he drew his sword from the scabbard at his hip and lunged at her with a cry. Merlin knew immediately that he would not complete the attack.

Merlin’s feet were moving before his thought was complete but he wasn’t quick enough. Before he was even fully into the room, a swipe of Morgana’s hand had sent Ellison crashing into a pillar. He slumped at the base of it and did not move, his sword falling from limp hands to clatter onto the stones and blood welling from his temple. To Merlin’s surprise and dismay, Tennison was not the first person to reach the fallen Lord.

Raime darted out from behind the pillar and dropped to his knees, pulling Ellison’s head into his lap to examine the damage. Tennison crashed to the ground beside him a second later, panic on his face as he looked upon his unmoving son. Raime caught sight of Merlin in the doorway and his anxious expression cleared immediately. Tennison followed Raime’s gaze and he was not nearly so relieved to see him. On the contrary, he leapt to his feet and drew his own sword.

“ _You!_ ” he bellowed. “This is  _your_ fault!” He looked quite mad, his red face contorted in rage and grief, and he launched himself at Merlin with an incoherent cry. Before Merlin could so much as raise his hand to cast a spell in self-defense, Tennison jerked to a stop as the tip of a sword protruded from his chest. Tennison coughed, flecks of blood flying from his lips, and slumped to the ground. Left in his place was Raime, pale and nauseous-looking but steady on his feet nonetheless.

They all stared at him in shock and he stared back, equally stunned by his own actions. He dropped the sword and the clang of it hitting stone echoed loudly in the silent chamber. He took a stumbling step back, looking from Tennison's body to Merlin and back again, trying to comprehend the sight before him. Before he had wrapped his head around it, Morgana spoke.

"Pity," she said lightly, looking down her nose at where Tennison's blood was pooling around him. "He could still have been useful." With that, she conjured a ball of flames in the palm of her hand and flung it toward Raime. Arthur leapt forward to snatch Raime out of the way and the projectile crashed into the wall, setting one of the blue hangings alight. Merlin threw out a wave of magic that Morgana blocked just in time and risked a glance back to make sure that Arthur and Raime were safely ensconced behind him.

"I thought I told you to stay out of the fighting, Raime," he said, exasperated even as he redirected another of Morgana's fireballs.

"No, you told me to stay in Carthis," Raime pointed out, rallying from his shock. "Which I did. And good thing, too. I just saved your life."

Merlin gritted his teeth and threw up a shield against Morgana's attempt to cut him in half with a nasty slashing spell.

"I could have taken care of Tennison."

"And fought Morgana at the same time?"

Merlin tried to pull Morgana's feet out from under her but she forestalled him with another dizzyingly strong knock-back spell.

"Fine, then. I could have taken Morgana and  _Arthur_  could have taken Tennison," he ground out.

"Well, now neither of you have to take care of him because I took care of him  _for_  you."

" _Bloody hell_ , was I this bad as your manservant, Arthur?" Merlin growled.

"Ten times worse," Arthur said, and he had the gall to sound amused. "But perhaps you can save this conversation for later?"

Right on cue, Morgana let loose a raging inferno, fire spewing from her fingertips to fly the distance between them. Merlin raised both hands and braced himself, the words he needed coming readily to his lips.

"Smiðe lígϸraca into gicelum." The flames froze under the force of his magic, coalescing into shards of ice that hung in the air before him. He turned them around with a wave of his hand and sent them careening back toward Morgana.

"Ámyltaϸ," she cried, and the icicles melted. "Ábeateaϸ hine." The water swept toward Merlin with the force of a tidal wave.

"Úpáwæl," he said. The water boiled and hissed before evaporating, a cloud of steam washing over him harmlessly. "Ástrice."

Morgana blocked the spell and responded in kind. The two of them blocked and parried and dodged, too evenly matched in skill and experience for either of them to make any headway. Merlin didn't notice Arthur creeping around him until he was already raising his sword in hopes of striking Morgana down while her attention was otherwise occupied. Arthur charged toward her. Morgana batted the sword from his hand with a wave of her own and conjured another ball of flames, a gleeful snarl on her face at the chance to put Arthur down for good.

Merlin called out a spell and yanked Arthur backward, out of harm's way. Arthur stumbled to a stop behind him and immediately shouted a warning. Merlin barely had time to throw up his shield before Morgana's attack slammed into it. The force of it pushed him back a step, tendrils of Morgana’s dark magic lapping around the edges of his own, but his shield held strong. Merlin hastily wrapped the shield into a dome, pulling it in tight around them and bracing himself for a lengthy siege.

"Arthur, are you alright?" he asked without looking back.

"I'm alright," Arthur said. "Are you?" He sounded worried. Morgana was throwing spell after spell at Merlin, hammering at his defenses. Every assault sent magic flooding across Merlin’s own, seeping past to skitter and dance along his skin, and every retreat dragged heavily along his shield, catching and pulling until Merlin had to fight to hold it where it was. He placed a hand against the inside of his shield to strengthen his connection with it. Sweat dripped into his eyes but Merlin didn't have the luxury of wiping it away at the moment; he needed all of his concentration.

"I'm fine," Merlin said. It came out breathless and strained, which probably wasn't very convincing. He could practically hear Arthur's skepticism and worry, and a quick glance over his shoulder confirmed his expression. "Magic isn't an inexhaustible resource, even for me," he admitted. "And I've already used a whole lot of it today. Morgana's an incredibly powerful sorceress—" Merlin winced as a particularly strong blast proved his point. "—and she hasn't been expending nearly as much energy as I have."

"In simple terms, please."

"I'm tired and she's not," Merlin bit out. "Normally I can let people wear themselves out trying to break through my shields—no one's ever managed it—but I don't think that's an option right now. I need to end this and soon."

"Come now, Emrys, don't cower," Morgana called out, her drawling voice audible even over the cacophony of clashing spells. "Come out and face me. You can't hide behind that shield forever." Another hard blow made Merlin wince and then scramble not to allow his own magic to be drawn out as hers retreated. It was an exhausting dance of push and pull.

"Options, Merlin, what are your options?" Arthur prompted, a solid, grounding presence at his back. Merlin took a deep breath and took stock. His hands were trembling from the strain of standing firm against Morgana's onslaught. His magic was flagging, worn down and drawing thin, and he breathed deeply again to calm himself and shore up the weak spots in his shield.

"Face it, Emrys," Morgana taunted. "I am a High Priestess of the Old Religion. You cannot defeat me."

Morgana wasn't leaving him an opening to strike back. With his abilities and the techniques he had developed, that didn't mean he was out of the running, but after so much fighting he just didn't have the reserves necessary to split his focus to attempt a second spell that wouldn’t siphon its power from his shield. To try and attack now would be to risk exposing himself and, more importantly, Arthur and Raime. Then his eyes fell on Arthur's sword, abandoned on the floor a few steps behind Morgana. His heart rate sped up. If any weapon could kill a High Priestess, that one could.

Morgana let loose a barrage of pure magic and Merlin felt it like a physical blow. It nearly sent him staggering, while the magical riptide pulled him in the opposite direction. Raime called his name in alarm and Arthur gripped his arm to steady him. Merlin shook him off and reached for his transportation crystal. It still had some power, and the thrum of it under his fingers was like a breath of fresh air. He didn't need to be at full strength to split his focus if he was drawing the energy for the second spell from a different source.

"You two stay here," Merlin said, as if they could do any different. He gave the dome one more thick wash of magic, all that he had left in him, to bolster and secure it before dropping his hand from its glittering surface. "The shield will hold." Arthur started to ask what he meant to do, but Merlin was already incanting.

In a whirl of wind, he was halfway across the chamber. Morgana continued her attack on the golden dome shield without realizing that Merlin was no longer inside it. Merlin crept behind her, keeping half an eye on his shield to make sure it was stable, still feeling the push and pull of maintaining it even from a distance, until he could grasp the hilt of Arthur's sword. The magic in the blade leapt up to greet him, welcoming his familiar presence.

The light scrape of metal against stone as he picked it up drew Morgana's attention. She spun to face him, deadly words on her lips, but Merlin met her halfway. The sword sank into her stomach before she could finish her spell and she cut off with an "oh" that sounded too delicate for the violence of the act. A deranged grin spread slowly across her face.

"Nice try, Emrys. No mortal blade can kill me," she said. She coughed and blood flecked her lips. Merlin shook his head, pity making his heart clench painfully in his chest.

"This is no mortal blade," he told her. "It was forged in the breath of a dragon." He twisted the sword and Morgana let out a choked cry. Her grin faded and panic lit her eyes behind the madness. Her fingers scrabbled for purchase on Merlin's armoured chest and found none. Her knees gave out and Merlin cradled her as she fell. She gasped for breath and coughed again, leaving a froth of red that recalled the lip paint she had been so fond of as a lady of the court. Merlin pulled the sword free and Morgana fell still, her eyes dimming as she breathed her last.

Merlin dropped the sword and laid her out properly. He met her eyes once more and then gently closed her lids. It was over. He wasn’t sure what he had expected to feel in this moment of triumph, but all he felt now was tired. Arthur's hand on his shoulder startled him; he didn't remember letting the shield fall, but it hardly mattered now. Arthur knelt beside him and they bowed their heads, paying their respects to the woman she had been, back when she had been their friend.

"Sire," Raime called, and Merlin raised his head. His manservant was kneeling over Lord Ellison again and gesturing him over. Merlin squeezed Arthur's shoulder and left him to mourn his sister. Ellison was struggling against Raime, trying to sit up, but Merlin gently pushed him back down again.

"Lie still," he said. "You took a nasty blow to the head. You'll need to be looked over by a healer." Ellison blinked up at him, confusion etched on his features before remembrance set in.

"Morgana!" he said abruptly. "The Lady Morgana was here. My father, he let her in. You need to—"

"Shh, Ellison. It's taken care of," Merlin assured him. "The Lady Morgana is dead. We don't have to worry about her anymore. The kingdom is safe." Ellison strained against his hand for another moment before the words sunk in, and then he collapsed back onto the floor, eyes closed in obvious relief. Merlin took the opportunity to gesture for Raime to fetch the healer, and the boy nodded and left the hall quietly.

"My father," Ellison said weakly. He sounded deeply tired, the sort of weariness that went beyond the physical. Merlin knew the feeling well. "He is a traitor. He let her in."

“I know,” Merlin said softly. “I’m sorry, Ellison.”

And he was, in much the same way that he had been sorry for Agravaine’s death. Not because of any sort of respect or affection for Agravaine, but because his betrayal and his death had hurt Arthur. This time, when Ellison shifted, Merlin helped him into a sitting position. Ellison’s eyes fell on his father’s body and he stared for a long time. Merlin left a hand on his cousin’s shoulder but didn’t say anything. For all that he had betrayed the both of them, Tennison had still been Ellison’s father, and the bond of love between father and son could not be so easily shattered. Ellison bowed his head and took an unsteady breath.

Merlin was saved from having to break the silence by the return of Raime, a young woman in long robes at his heel that he knew to be called Esla. She was one of the Court Healer’s apprentices, already quite skilled in her own right and left to tend the city while the rest followed the army to Camelot, and Merlin gave her a small smile as she knelt down at Ellison’s other side. She touched Ellison’s back and began murmuring questions to him, assessing his condition as gently as possible. Merlin left her to it.

He stepped out into the corridor and flagged down a passing guard. He explained what had happened, that the traitor had been found and the threat nullified. He ordered that the Barrier be left in place for a while yet, at least until things had calmed down and everything had been secured. Then he sent the guard in search of someone who could dispose of Morgana’s body, and Tennison’s, with respect. The guard nodded solemnly and hastened to his tasks. Merlin turned back to Arthur and Arthur stood to meet him halfway across the chamber. Arthur didn’t say anything at first, looking as heavy as Merlin felt, and Merlin ran a hand over his face.

“Now what?” Merlin asked.

“We must get back to Camelot,” Arthur said. “The battle was still being waged when we left.” Merlin winced, reaching for the transport crystal around his neck. It had barely a flicker of power left in it, not enough for even one transport, and he wasn’t so sure he had the power to get them anywhere right now. They would have to go back the old fashioned way, which meant three days on horseback, unless he could borrow someone else’s crystal.

Merlin strode back to Morgana’s side and hesitated only a moment before kneeling beside her and searching for the pocket of her dress. He pulled free her transportation crystal. The magic inside felt slimy and dark, and his own rebelled against it on instinct, but it would do well enough to get them from point A to point B. Arthur didn’t comment on his usage of it. Merlin didn’t notice until they were halfway through the lower town that Raime had fallen in behind them. He opened his mouth to send him away but, recognizing the stubborn jut of Raime’s chin as reminiscent of his own, he just closed it again and shook his head.

The people they passed on the street whispered to each other, the news of the battle and Merlin’s triumph spreading quickly. No one approached them, but a number of people bowed low as Merlin drew even with them, many of the druids going so far as to kneel and press their foreheads to the ground. Merlin nodded to each of them, too done in to be overwhelmed by the awe and reverence in their expressions. Sir Galahad simply nodded to him at the city gates and Merlin tried his best to smile. Once the gate had shut behind them, Merlin held out his arm. Arthur and Raime both laid hands upon it. Merlin grasped Morgana’s transport crystal and muttered the spell that would take them away.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

They transported directly into Camelot’s throne room to find Guinevere, in sensible breeches and fur wrap with her hair tied back from her face, and Sirs Leon and Gerund, both still in battle attire, already in conference there. The chamber didn’t look any the worse for wear, and the others looked anxious but not frantic, so Arthur felt certain none of the enemy combatants had broken through the spells Merlin’s mages had placed on the castle to prevent entry. He strained to hear sounds of battle, but the only ringing of swords he heard was meager and distant.

The three in the chamber were huddled close to the throne and they startled at the abrupt appearance of Arthur, Merlin, and Raime in the room, staring for a moment. Then they promptly swarmed around the three of them. Arthur embraced his wife gladly and let her jumbled remonstrations and declarations of relief go over his head, too tired to make sense of them just yet.

Merlin didn’t seem to be paying the slightest bit of attention to Gerund’s rapid-fire questions either, just passively allowing himself to be scrutinized and interrogated. Arthur finally pushed Guinevere back and cleared his throat but before he could get a word out she finally spoke slowly and clearly enough to penetrate the haze in his mind.

“What happened?” she demanded, the strain of her worry evident despite the wash of relief on her features. “You just disappeared in the middle of a battle, Arthur. You could have been dead for all we knew.”

“I know,” he sighed, “and I apologize, but—”

“That was my doing, Gwen,” Merlin broke in, shrugging Raime’s supporting hand from his elbow to face her. “We confronted Morgana here and had her cornered. Once it became clear to her that Camelot would not be taken, she turned her sights to Carthis instead.”

“To Carthis?” Gerund said. “But how? With the Barrier in place, she couldn’t possibly have—”

“Lord Tennison.” Merlin sounded more defeated than angry now, too drained to maintain his earlier fury. Gerund’s expression darkened dangerously and he gripped the hilt of his sword, but Merlin shook his head to forestall him. Gwen looked between them, not understanding the name.

“You were betrayed?” she guessed correctly.

“Yes. A member of my court gifted Morgana with new technology to aid her in her escape and then opened the Barrier to allow her passage into Carthis.” Merlin sagged further, looking as though the armour he wore, light as it was, was heavy enough to drag him through the floor. The he took a deep breath a straightened resolutely, shoring up his reserves of strength. “It’s no matter.”

“No matter?” Gerund repeated incredulously. “Of course it is! He must be brought to justice for his crimes immediately.”

“Tennison is dead, Gerund,” Merlin said bluntly. “And Morgana as well. The battle is over, at least on that front.” All the righteous fury bled out of Gerund in an instant to leave him looking a bit conflicted, angered by the betrayal and still somehow grieved by the death of a longtime peer.

“And here?” Arthur asked, turning to Sir Leon. “What progress?”

“Morgana’s forces fought hard for a while,” his First Knight reported dutifully, “but then they faltered. We later determined that to be the time you all disappeared. It seems as though, once they stopped receiving direct orders from on high, they lost their determination to fight.” Arthur nodded.

“Fear of one’s leader is not a strong motivator,” he said. “The majority of them likely fought under threat, or on promise of payment. With her no longer there to threaten or pay, they turned tail and ran.”

“The last are being driven out as we speak, sire. We expect the city to be secure by nightfall.”

“You’re bleeding,” Merlin said, stepping forward to gesture toward Leon. Arthur saw a strip of red fabric, probably torn from the bottom of Leon’s own cloak, tied around Leon’s upper arm. Leon looked at it as though he’d forgotten it was there, which was entirely possible. Merlin moved to examine it.

“It’s just a scratch,” Leon objected, but Merlin batted his hand away and unwound the makeshift bandage. Arthur had seen far more gruesome wounds, but it looked painful all the same, and it was still sluggishly seeping blood.

“It will need cleaning,” Merlin said, prodding at the gash and making Leon wince. “Honey, and goldenseal or calendula for infection, probably a few sutures. Have you seen Gaius? One of the healers from Carthis?”

“They have plenty of others to occupy them right now,” Leon said, but the protest was half-hearted, as though he already knew he would lose this argument. “Their hands are full.”

“Then I’ll lend mine.” Merlin took hold of Leon by the arm and turned him in the direction of the doors. Leon looked back to Arthur, eyebrows raised. He looked to Merlin and then back to Arthur, his concern for Merlin’s pallor evident. Arthur didn’t blame him; Merlin didn’t exactly look to be at the peak of health at the moment, even with no visible injuries to explain it.

“Merlin.” Arthur put a hand on Merlin’s shoulder to stop him dragging Leon out of the hall at once. “You’re the one who needs a healer right now.”

Gerund was at Merlin’s side in an instant, scanning him from head to toe even more intensively, looking like he was a second away from frisking Merlin and only restraining himself for the sake of Merlin’s position. Then he gave up propriety and reached out anyway.

“Are you injured?” he demanded, lines around his mouth tightening grimly. “Where? What happened?”

Merlin huffed in irritation, slapping at Gerund’s hands until he stopped examining Merlin’s every inch for the gaping wounds he seemed sure he would find.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Gerund, I’m fine. I’m just exhausted. You were right in that there _is_ such a thing as overdoing it, even for me. I think I may have finally found my limit today.”

That seemed to mollify Gerund, at least enough to get him to step back to a respectable distance once more if not to remove the anxiety from his features. Arthur marveled briefly at how quickly people came to care so much for Merlin. If he hadn’t known better, if he’d been an objective observer, Arthur could easily have assumed Gerund to be a father fretting over his son, not a second in command worried for the safety of his sovereign.

“Are you alright?” Gwen asked, hovering and clasping her hands together in the way that meant she wanted to fuss and mother and was only barely holding herself in check. “I mean, you’re not injured? You don’t need a physician?

“What I need is a hot meal and a week of sleep,” Merlin said. “I can get those later. After the injured have been treated. My magic may have run dry for the moment, but my skills as a physician are still valid.” He took Leon by the arm again and ushered him out of the throne room, and no one stopped him this time. Raime shifted and inched forward, looking awkwardly between Arthur and Guinevere, the two who knew Merlin best.

“Does he always do this?” he asked tentatively, aware that he was addressing foreign royalty and not sure that he actually had the right. But the boy looked as concerned for Merlin as Arthur felt, so he couldn’t fault him for the breach of propriety.

“You mean push himself until he drops?” he asked. “Yes.”

Merlin had always gone out of his way to help in any way he could. After every battle and every attack, he threw himself into helping Gaius and, later, working more independently to take the load off his mentor’s shoulders. And all that on top of following Arthur into battle and, he now knew, usually turning the tide of said battle with covert acts of impressive magic. Arthur had had to order Merlin to take a break and get some sleep more than once during the course of his service. The man simply didn’t know when to stop.

Arthur sighed and rubbed his face, remembering the many times Merlin had braved Arthur’s fury to take the sword from his hand and the crown from his head and drag him back to his chambers. “I can hardly blame him for it, though. I do it too.”

“And yet Merlin is always the first to tell you to get some rest,” Gwen pointed out, tutting. “Honestly, you’re both as bad as each other.” She turned to Raime, the fair-haired boy hovering uncertainly beside Sir Gerund, who looked as though he were still processing the revelation of Tennison’s betrayal and death. Or perhaps he was thinking of Ellison. Either way, his head was down and his brow furrowed in thought. Gwen smiled at Raime. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” she said. Raime startled and blushed and dropped into a bow so low he nearly toppled forward.

“My sincerest apologies, ma’am. Er, my Lady. Er, your _Majesty_. Er—”

“This is Raime,” Arthur interjected before the poor boy could ramble on any further and hurt himself tripping over his own tongue. Honestly, he could run a traitorous Lord through and bicker in the midst of battle but he couldn’t speak to a Lady? “He is Merlin’s manservant.”

Gwen looked surprised for a moment before a smile began tugging at her lips. Something of Arthur’s own amusement must have shown through on his face because she quickly righted her expression and turned back to the boy in question.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Raime,” she said warmly. “I’m Guinevere, but you can call me Gwen.” Raime looked a little faint at the thought of calling a foreign queen by her nickname and Arthur would have laughed out loud if he weren’t so drained. He gave as much of a chuckle as he could manage, anyway, but he sobered quickly. He looked between his queen and Merlin’s second in command.

“What’s the damage?” he asked.

“Not anywhere near as bad as the last two times Morgana attacked,” Gwen said pragmatically, “nor as bad as several of the other conflicts we’ve endured. Having the mages at our backs was a godsend. We lost barely a hundred men. Another three hundred wounded, to some degree or another. The most severe are being treated immediately, of course.”

“Many of our mages have some basic healer’s training,” Gerund said. “Those who are still mobile, and still have the reserves, are making the rounds of those with non-life-threatening injuries and doing what they can.”

“Thank you, Gerund.” Arthur rubbed a hand over his face again. A hundred men. Gwen was right in that it was a dramatically lower number than he was used to hearing, a miniscule fraction compared to many of the battles Arthur had studied when he had learnt of the strategies and logistics of war as a youth, but it was still considerable life lost. “I’m going to drop in on Gaius, get a preliminary report on the injured.”

“I will accompany you, sire. I must report to my Lord properly,” Gerund said.

Raime stepped forward and then back again, apparently at loose ends and dickering between searching out his master to get orders and trying to stay out of the way. Arthur wondered if it wouldn’t have been better to leave the boy in Carthis, but considering what had happened there, perhaps not. The rush of battle was fading and he was likely to crash soon, and hard.

At Arthur’s meaningful look, Gwen looped her arm through Raime’s and drew the boy off, asking questions of Carthis and what Merlin had been up to all this time. Raime looked stunned and a little star-struck, but he went with her willingly enough. Arthur trusted Gwen to take care of him when the realization hit that he had killed a man. He’d need the support of someone like Gwen, someone with infinite compassion and understanding, if and when he started blaming himself.

Arthur led the way through the castle to the lesser banquet hall that was always appropriated for triage in cases like this, Gerund at his heel. It had been a while since the hall had been used; three years of remarkable peace had rendered it unnecessary. They had been considering actually having a banquet in there for once. Now the hall was lined with pallets once more, maids with jugs of water and stacks of linen bandages weaving among them.

Gaius was in the midst of it all, as well as the three healers that had come from Carthis and a number of lesser physicians and herbalists that practiced locally and offered up their skills when such large numbers of injured flooded in after battles such as this. Arthur could see knights and soldiers from Camelot still eyeing the delegation from Carthis warily, but a few did allow for their wounds to be treated with magic while their less-trusting fellows watched on with teeth gritted in both pain and suspicion.

Gaius spotted the two of them and nodded in acknowledgement before turning back to his patient. Arthur waited, not wanting to take Gaius away from someone who needed his attention more, and scanned the hall until he spotted Merlin. He was wrist-deep in a Carthisian mage’s blood, sewing up a deep slice on her side with tight, efficient stitches. He was still pale and wan, but his hands were steady and the smile he gave her when he finished was genuine. He spoke softly to her as he bandaged the wound tightly, then he moved on to the next in line.

“I hear you made a quick detour to another kingdom,” came Gaius’ voice from his other side, startling him. The old man raised an eyebrow, somehow managing to convey disapproval through that gesture alone. Arthur had always hated that look; it made him feel like a child again, caught with his grubby little hand among the cook’s fresh sweetmeats. He cleared his throat guiltily.

“That was Merlin’s fault,” he said with a weak gesture to where Merlin was working, now with Gerund waiting at his shoulder. Gaius looked thoroughly unimpressed at his attempt to throw Merlin under the cart. It was a little unfair since it really had been outside of Arthur’s control, but Arthur had to acknowledge that, if Merlin had stopped to give him the choice, he would have gone with Merlin willingly. “And it turned out well,” Arthur said quickly, trying to sound kingly and authoritative. “The battle is won, and likely the war as well.” Gaius held the eyebrow look a moment longer before he let out a deep sigh, for once looking as old as he was.

“She is gone?” he asked simply. Arthur couldn’t bring himself to say the word, still struggling to wrap his head around the notion that his childhood playmate and erstwhile sister was no longer a part of the mortal world, so he just nodded. Gaius closed his eyes, grief settling upon him like a cloak and making his shoulders stoop an inch more. “I supposed it is for the best.”

Arthur nodded again and let the subject drop. Instead, he turned to the hall and inquired of his men. Gaius gave him lists of those who would not last the night, those who might pull through, and those who would not be returning to his service even if they did. Arthur listened as he always did, with his jaw clenched and his head down, fighting the heaviness in his heart. He thanked Gaius for his time and left the man to his duty.

Leon, patched up by Merlin’s skilled hand, was waiting for him by the door. He followed Arthur out of the hall to give him a more detailed, blow-by-blow account of what had occurred in his absence. Arthur took note of those who had acted with outstanding valor, and those who had died with the same, to be commended at the commemorative and celebratory feast that would inevitably follow. He listened carefully to descriptions of how the knights and mages had worked together and what methods had been most effective. It was truly astonishing what a team of two, armed with only sword and magic, could achieve. Arthur dismissed Leon to his rest and retired to his own chambers.

He somehow wasn’t surprised to find Merlin sitting in one of the plush chairs before his fire, though he could not remember seeing Merlin leave the hall. He looked as though he’d been there for a while and Arthur had to wonder how long he had stood thinking between the time he had waved Leon off and the time he had actually reached his own chambers. Merlin was still in his armour, dusty and a little dented but thankfully free of blood. He had abandoned the voluminous blue cloak at some point. He didn’t look up when Arthur entered the room, nor did he acknowledge him while Arthur stripped out of as much of his armour as he could manage on his own and laid it out on his table for George to take care of later. Without a word, Arthur took the other chair.

“Forty-two fighters,” Merlin said after a long silence. Arthur didn’t ask for clarification; he didn’t need it. “Thirty-four men, eight women. Dead. Three more are likely to be lost before sunrise.”

It was a slim percentage of the full force Merlin had brought to bear, but that wasn’t the way Merlin thought. He didn’t have the experience and the practice of thinking of men as an expendable resource as rulers were so often required to do. Arthur had worried about this, about what leading a campaign would do to Merlin; he’d always been soft-hearted. For him, one death would always been one too many, and that simply wasn’t feasible.

“It’s war, Merlin,” Arthur said gently. “There are always casualties.”

“Dozens of children have lost a parent today, and parents their child. What do I tell them?” Merlin sounded haunted and the firelight flickering on his face made him look oddly skeletal, highlighting the hollows of his cheeks and the circles under his eyes. He was gripping the arms of his chair tightly enough to make the wood squeak in protest. Arthur wished he had something to say to make that look go away, but he didn’t. If he did, he wouldn’t have had to see it in the mirror so often over the course of his life.

“You tell them that their loved ones fought bravely for their kingdom, and that they died with honor,” he said instead. Merlin shook his head. He hadn’t looked away from the flames. “I know it’s not enough,” Arthur said. “It’s never enough, Merlin, but it’s all we have to offer them.”

Merlin pushed himself out of his chair abruptly and began to pace, his movements tight and jerky. He ran fingers through his hair, tugging hard. He looked to be chewing on his tongue, or else grinding his teeth hard enough to crack them. Arthur watched Merlin as he became more and more agitated, wondering if he would have to restrain Merlin to keep him from hurting himself.

Finally, Merlin let out a strangled roar of frustration and anguish and the fire in the grate roared in response, leaping out of the grate in a wild rush that had Arthur jerking out of the way to avoid being burned. Merlin froze in the middle of the room, facing Arthur but with his head down and his shoulders hunched almost defensively. Arthur waited, holding his breath, but Merlin didn’t move again.

“Merlin?” he said cautiously.

Merlin jerked his head, not quite a denial, almost a reflex. He clenched his fists until they shook and Arthur thought he saw a hint of red as his fingernails dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood.

“It’s my fault,” he whispered, the strangled confession almost too soft to be heard over the crackling of the flames. Arthur wasn’t entirely sure he was supposed to hear it at all, but hear it he did and it rang in his head like a claxon.

“No,” he said immediately. He rose to approach Merlin, but Merlin took a step back, keeping the distance between them.

“It’s my fault,” he repeated, shaking his head now, over and over, a mindless motion. “I left them,” he said. “In the middle of a battle, I abandoned them. I should have stayed, I should have protected them.”

“Merlin—”

“I dragged them into this,” he said, his voice getting louder even as he didn’t raise his eyes from the floor. “They didn’t want to do it. The council thought I was mad. I proposed this plan and I pushed for it when others advised against it.”

“Merlin, you responded to a threat,” Arthur said. “Your ally was under attack, so you sent aid. That’s what allies do in a war.”

“But there wouldn’t have _been_ a war but for me!” Merlin shouted and the fire flared again. He finally met Arthur’s gaze and his eyes were red-rimmed and wet and tinged with wild gold. “I did this,” he said, and his voice broke. “It’s my fault, all of it. If I had just…Morgana would never have…” He stopped, pulling at his hair hard enough that it had to hurt, but that seemed to be his intent. He swallowed hard and shook his head. “I made her that way. She was what I forced her to become. I did this, Arthur, it’s my f—”

Arthur took Merlin by the shoulders before he could retreat and shook him hard enough to make his chainmail rattle. Merlin cut off in mid-word and stared at him with wide eyes. He looked shocked by Arthur’s actions, but he didn’t seem quite so close to hysteria, so Arthur shook him again until Merlin scowled in anger and tried to push his hands away. Arthur held on and waited to say his piece until Merlin’s struggles waned and he slumped in defeat.

“This is not your fault,” Arthur said, slowly and clearly. Merlin immediately opened his mouth to contradict him, but Arthur shook him once more, ignoring Merlin’s noise of frustration at the rough treatment. “Look at me, Merlin.” He waited until Merlin met his gaze, though reluctantly.

“This is not your fault,” he repeated. “You are not to blame for what Morgana became. Morgana was always volatile, even as a child. A lot of factors contributed to her madness, Merlin, starting long before you graced the kingdom with your presence. We all had a hand in what she became: you, me, Gaius, our father, even Gwen. We all had a hand, but we are none of us responsible for her choices or her actions. You do you hear me?” Merlin didn’t look convinced, but he nodded all the same and Arthur loosened his hold a bit.

“Morgana chose her path,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster, trying to will Merlin to believe his words. “She followed it blindly, doing what she believed to be right and damn the consequences. That was always her way, as it was Uther’s way. Perhaps her goal was a worthy one, ultimately, and perhaps it wasn’t, but her methods were her own and they could not be borne.

“She threatened our kingdoms, both of them. She declared war on us. People die in war, Merlin,” Arthur said, his voice sledge-hammer blunt. “That’s how it goes, and that’s how it always will.” Merlin winced, and Arthur softened his tone. He moved his hands from Merlin’s arms up to his shoulders, more comforting than restraining now that Merlin was no longer trying to get away from him.

“Measure success not in lives lost, Merlin,” he said, gentler yet. Merlin looked like a misplaced word would shatter him completely, so Arthur chose his carefully. “That way lies only despair. Measure it in the lives saved.

“Morgana was ruthless. She cared not for the lives of her men, nor for the lives of the innocents who got in her way. If we had not met her today, how many more battles would she have waged against us? How many more years would we have fought? How many more lives would have been lost today alone if you had not come to my aid?” he asked, ducking his head in an attempt to make sure Merlin couldn’t look away from him, but Merlin squeezed his eyes shut and tucked his chin to his chest. Arthur needed him to listen; he needed to make Merlin understand this.

“You lost forty-two fighters,” he said, and Merlin trembled. “I lost a hundred and fourteen. That’s one hundred and fifty-six in total, but out of how many? How many entered the fray today and how many walked away to fight again?” Arthur shook Merlin until he looked him in the eye again, practically begging him to understand the import of this. “Thousands, Merlin. One hundred and fifty-six out of two thousand and eight hundred. That’s amazing, you do realize that? It’s by far the most successful campaign I’ve ever taken part in, Merlin, and that is thanks to _you_.

“You did not start this war, no matter that it might feel that way. But you finished it. You won it, Merlin. You have brought peace.”

Merlin’s shoulders trembled in Arthur’s hands. He shook his head over and over, struggling to reconcile that such a loss of life could ever be considered a victory. Arthur knew the feeling better than anyone. The first battle, the first life to be given in one’s name, was always the hardest to bear. The first time a knight had died under his command, Arthur had raged and raged for days. He had wrecked his room and broken everything he could get his hands on and cursed the gods for their callousness and their cruelty.

Then Morgana had waded through the carnage and put her arms around him, and he had sunk to his knees and sobbed into her shoulder and cursed himself more than any god. It didn’t surprise him in the least that Merlin would skip past the anger and go straight to the self-recriminations. So he did what Morgana had done for him. He pulled Merlin in for a hug. It wasn’t the most comfortable of things, both of them still at least partially armoured, but Merlin clung to him like a lifeline.

“It’s not your fault, Merlin,” he murmured once more, feeling tears wetting his neck and holding Merlin all the tighter for them. “You did all you could. For your fighters, for your kingdom, and for Morgana. You did your best, and that’s all that can ever be asked of you. Some things are simply beyond our control.”

Merlin nodded into his shoulder even as the tears continued to fall. Arthur didn’t say anything else; there wasn’t really anything else of substance to be said, and further platitudes would do him no good. Arthur simply held Merlin through his grief, feeling his own just as acutely even if he had exhausted his supply of tears many years ago. The two of them stayed that way until the sobs subsided and Merlin pulled back to wipe at his eyes, giving him a small and embarrassed smile.

“Sorry,” he said with a sniff. Arthur shook his head.

“Don’t be. I’ve been there, far too many times,” he said. “Losing men is hard, and it never gets any easier. But I’m glad. The day we stop grieving for every man, woman, and child we lose is the day we no longer deserve to be entrusted with their care.” Merlin nodded. He wiped at his face once more and tugged at his chainmail to settle it more comfortably on his shoulders.

“I should get back to Carthis.”

“Absolutely not,” Arthur said firmly. Merlin looked up, his melancholy expression replaced by raised eyebrows.

“Excuse me?” Merlin said indignantly.

“You’re staying here for the night,” Arthur said in the tone he always used when he expected to be obeyed. It had never worked well on Merlin before, but he could hope that Merlin’s exhaustion, both physical and emotional, would work in his favor just this once. Merlin didn’t really look up for fighting about it. “Gerund can take care of things in Carthis for tonight. You are going to rest and recuperate and return when you don’t look like a light breeze will knock you flat.”

“I’m pretty sure you can’t order me around anymore,” Merlin pointed out.

“Don’t be silly, Merlin. Of course I can.”

Merlin looked very put-upon indeed, but was prevented from arguing further by a knock on the door. Arthur called a welcome and the door creaked open to allow Raime to stick his head in. He looked worn out, but no more so than the rest of the servants who had weathered the battle from wherever they could be most useful. He spotted his master and smiled, looking relieved to see him still on his feet instead of collapsed in a corner somewhere.

“Sire!” he said, stepping into the room fully. Merlin cleared his throat pointedly and Raime rolled his eyes. “ _Merlin_ , right, sorry. The queen said I would probably find you here.” He turned to Arthur and bowed. “Evening, sire.” Arthur nodded an acknowledgement and turned to Merlin.

“He’s infinitely better behaved than you were,” he said.

Merlin shrugged. “I’m trying to break him of that.”

“Of course you are.”

“Apparently we’re staying here tonight,” Merlin said to his manservant, but Raime jumped in.

“That’s what I was coming to tell you,” he said. “Gwen’s already had a room made up for you at the end of the east wing.” Arthur had to laugh at the sour look on Merlin’s face and his mutter about overbearing worrywarts, but Raime ignored Merlin’s scowl entirely with what seemed to be practiced ease. “I’ve drawn you a bath. It’s not very hot, though; they’re using most of the wood to boil water to clean the bandages for the infirmary.”

“That’s more than enough, Raime, thank you. I’ll be there shortly,” Merlin said by way of a dismissal. Raime nodded to him, bowed to Arthur, and left them.

“If you have it drawn quickly, I can heat your bath for you without needing to steal wood from Gaius,” Merlin offered, but Arthur shook his head.

“You’ve done more than enough for one day, I think,” he said. “Don’t want you fainting on me like a girl because you don’t know when to stop. Go take your rest; you’ve earned it. We’ll talk more in the morning.” Merlin nodded without a fuss or even a rejoinder—evidence enough of his fatigue—and moved to leave. He stopped with his hand on the door frame and turned back.

“Thank you,” he said simply. Arthur nodded to him, and Merlin left.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

Merlin slept more deeply than he ever had, too deep even for dreams to reach him, and woke feeling almost restored. His whole body ached, but his magic didn’t feel like a gaping hole anymore, so he counted that as a victory. He dragged himself out of bed at a reasonable hour to find the curtains already drawn.

Raime was puttering around the room. He looked distracted and much more tired than he should have after a full night’s sleep. There wasn’t much for him to tidy, it being a guest chamber, so he just seemed to be rearranging Merlin’s armor whenever he passed it. It took him three more circuits of the room to notice that Merlin was leaning against the bedpost and watching him. He quickly snatched up Merlin’s pauldron and a cloth and sat down to polish it diligently. Merlin frowned at him.

“Raime,” he said.

“Yes, sire?” Raime responded without looking up.

“Raime, are you alright?”

“Of course, my Lord. I’d have told you yesterday if I’d been injured.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Merlin sat down next to Raime, waving his hand at Raime’s half-hearted protests of kings and dirt and propriety. “Please, Raime, I’ve scrubbed these floors a dozen times. I think I can handle sitting on them. Now tell me honestly: are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Raime asked impatiently, but he focused even more on the pauldron in his hand, scrubbing harder than he needed to. The crease in his forehead and the bags under his eyes spoke of a restless night full of frowning. Merlin recognized the look.

“Because battle is traumatizing,” Merlin said frankly. “Especially one’s first. It’s fast and it’s scary and it’s overwhelming. And taking a life is never easy.” Raime’s polishing cloth slowed and stopped. He was quiet for a long moment.

“But it was,” he said, almost too softly for Merlin to hear it.

“Was what?”

“Easy. Killing Tennison,” he said, marveling and horrified at once. “It was so easy.”

“No,” Merlin said. “Not easy. Simple, perhaps. Quick. But not easy. You wouldn’t feel like this if it had been.”

“And how exactly do I feel?” Raime demanded, suddenly tense, filled with the youthful anger of those determined to be misunderstood. It was an emotion with which Merlin was intimately familiar, though it had been many years since he had succumbed to it last. He had spent the majority of his adolescence alternating between fits of rage and despair, certain that he and he alone had ever felt the way he felt.

“Like a monster.”

All the tension melted out of Raime in an instant and he finally turned over-bright eyes to Merlin. Merlin met his gaze steadily, seeing the desperation there and feeling a sharp echo of his own.

“Guilt,” he said. “Anger. Horror. Self-loathing. Relief.” Merlin smiled a bit as Raime’s eyes widened with each emotion he listed. “I felt the same when I killed someone for the first time. I took one life to save another, as you did. And then I wondered what sort of monster I must be to be relieved that this person was dead, to be glad for it.”

Merlin closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the imposter of Lady Helen and the crash of a heavy chandelier. He thought of the moment two days later when he had sat up in his bed in a cold sweat, shaking as the realization set in that he was a murderer.

“I was angry at myself,” he said, opening his eyes to meet Raime’s again, “disgusted that I had the capacity for that sort of violence. I was disgusted with King Uther for rewarding me for it, with Gaius for commending my quick thinking, with the world for conspiring against me to put me in that position, with Arthur for being threatened and needing me to save him.

“But you know what?” He quirked a small smile at Raime, who shook his head a tiny bit. “I did save him,” Merlin said. “And it was the right thing to do. That didn’t make it any easier to accept that I had blood on my hands, but my conscience is clean. I saved Arthur’s life. Like you saved mine.”

Raime laughed a bit and wiped at wet eyes. “Thought you could’ve taken him?” he said, a rather weak attempt at teasing that made Merlin’s smile widen anyway.

“Perhaps,” he allowed with a small laugh. “But perhaps not. And if I hadn’t managed it, if I’d been killed, then so would you and so would Arthur. And Carthis would have been taken and Camelot would have fallen.” He stopped, letting the scope of it all, of what he had prevented, sink in. “It wasn’t just me you saved, Raime,” he said.

Raime nodded dumbly, too overwhelmed to speak. Merlin left him to his silence, taking the opportunity to make his own peace with all that had been done. This conversation was not so different than the one he had had with Arthur the night before, and he was not so thick as to ignore the wisdom in both. The lives that had been taken were far fewer than those that would have been lost had they not been. His heart was heavy, but his conscience was clean. Finally Raime shook his head and hauled himself to his feet.

“Breakfast,” he said firmly, clapping his hands together. “The king and queen wish you to dine with them, sire. You’ll be late if you don’t hurry up.”

“Don’t worry; they’re more than used to it.” Merlin allowed Raime to pull him to his feet. Raime pulled clothes from the wardrobe, but Merlin turned down his rich suggestions and donned a simple tunic and trousers, plainer than he had worn in a long time. Raime raised an eyebrow, but it just felt right. Raime fell in behind him as he trod the familiar route to the lesser banquet hall where the royal family had always broken their fast.

Arthur and Gwen were waiting there for him, both also dressed plainly. This wasn’t a political meeting, but a gathering of friends. They looked up and smiled when he entered and the sight of it sent a flood of warmth through Merlin’s chest. He took the proffered seat at Arthur’s right hand, marveling for a moment that he was at the table instead of serving it. Gwen beamed at him from over her breakfast as Raime filled Merlin’s cup and served him.

“You look better,” she said.

“I told you all I needed was rest and food,” Merlin pointed out. “I’ve had the rest.” He held up a sausage for her observance. “Here’s the food.” He swallowed it down as Gwen laughed and Arthur rolled his eyes. “But really, Gwen, I’m fine. All rested up and with hardly a scratch on me.”

“I know, I do,” she said, waving a hand. “I was just worried about you. We both were.” Merlin half-expected Arthur to scoff and deny it, but he nodded instead. “We only just got you back,” Gwen said. “We couldn’t bear to lose you again.”

“Especially from something stupid like overwork,” Arthur put in around a mouthful of bread. “Your combat skills have improved tenfold, but your stubbornness still needs a little work.”

“Says the man who was still out long after I’d left the infirmary,” Merlin said

“You mean after Gaius kicked you out of the infirmary,” Gwen corrected him helpfully and Arthur gave him a look of pure exasperation.

Merlin rolled his eyes but didn’t challenge the clarification. He would have worked the sickbeds all night if Gaius hadn’t put his foot down. Looking back, he knew it was for the best. If he had stayed any longer, he would have started making mistakes, and a botched treatment could be more deadly than the wound it was meant to treat. He wished he could have found other ways to help, but he had to admit he had been next to useless by then, and for more reasons than just weariness.

The anguish of the night before still weighed on his shoulders. By dint of his status and his authority, he was responsible for the damage his forces had taken, no matter that they had chosen to serve their kingdom and sworn to protect it with their lives if necessary. But Arthur was right. The danger they had evaded was greater than the losses they had suffered. For the greater good; that would have to be justification enough, as it was for all who bore the mantle of authority. The ache remained, though the burn of guilt no longer threatened to overwhelm him. He was alright. And he didn’t need Arthur and Gwen both shooting him furtive glances over their breakfast.

“You say that as if you weren’t in there for hours after I was,” he said, raising an eyebrow at Gwen. “What time of night was it when Gaius chased _you_ off for sleep?” He was rewarded by a slight flush of Gwen’s cheeks and he smirked as she primly folded her napkin in her lap.

“I had not spent the day fighting for my life,” she countered.

“It really was some fine fighting though,” Arthur said, still sounding genuinely surprised. Merlin had to smile. He hadn’t tried to imagine Arthur’s reaction to his learning sword craft, not willing to subject himself to the pain it would have brought him when he still believed Arthur hated him, but now he was finding it rather amusing.

“How was I supposed to earn the loyalty of my men and women if I didn’t fight alongside them?” he asked. “I’ve been training since maybe my third day in Carthis, both with the mages and the knights. I received intensive sword tutelage from Mordred in exchange for training in specialized magic techniques.”

“Your men fought with admirable dedication, especially for a monarch of a scant few months. They showed you great loyalty.”

“They humble me with it,” Merlin said, feeling his chest clench. “I’m hardly worthy of such devotion.”

“Yes, you are,” Raime said clearly from his place at Merlin’s shoulder. Merlin turned to look at him, but he was the picture of innocence and obedience. Merlin tried to look stern, but he couldn’t manage to suppress his grateful smile so it didn’t come across properly. Gwen was all but beaming at the boy and even Arthur was looking a bit fond. Raime filled Merlin’s water goblet and gave him a vaguely defiant look and Merlin turned back to his breakfast.

“You will be returning to Carthis now?” Arthur asked, his smile faltering a bit.

Merlin’s heart sank at the prospect. After this, after experiencing Arthur’s true regard, he hated the thought of leaving it behind. He had missed Arthur so much, and Gaius and Gwen and the knights and the city. But he also found himself missing his blue-filled chambers in Carthis, the rooms his father had inhabited in his youth. He missed the way the stones tingled with ancient yet familiar magic. He itched to get back on the practice field, and to see how the Lower Priests were coming along with the invisibility cloak. He had not lived there long, but he missed his kingdom.

“Yes,” he said, only half as saddened as he had expected to be. “I’ve matters to attend to.” He needed to notify the families of the fallen, lower the Barrier around the city, and speak to his cousin. And he supposed he should inform Kilgharrah of all that had occurred, and speak to him on the matter of Aithusa now that he was out from under Morgana’s influence.

“We’ll miss you, Merlin,” Gwen said, looking a little tearful.

“I’ll be back,” he said quickly, fearing a crying Gwen. “At every opportunity, now that I know I’m welcome.” His levity must have fallen flat because Gwen looked sad and Arthur dropped his eyes to his plate.

“I can hardly believe you’d ever think you wouldn’t be,” Gwen said. It was Merlin’s turn to avert his eyes, pushing the grapes around his plate half-heartedly as he shrugged.

“It’s not like I didn’t give you plenty of reason not to want me back here,” he muttered.

“That’s ridiculous, Merlin,” Arthur said firmly. Merlin looked up at him.

“I lied to you for eleven years.”

“And I condoned the slaughter of your kind for thirty.” Arthur sighed. “I think my sin justifies yours. And outweighs it.” The guilt and grief on Arthur’s face aged him in that moment and Merlin hurt to see it there. He wanted to reassure Arthur, to tell him it was no fault of his, that Uther held the blame, but the small, pained smile on Arthur’s lips told Merlin he knew that. Hearing it one more time would not make it any less of a hollow comfort. Merlin cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Anyway,” he said, abandoning the weighty topic. “I’ve the means to visit at the drop of a hat now. You won’t be able to get rid of me.”

“More’s the pity,” Arthur quipped and Gwen smacked his arm. Merlin laughed at his scandalized expression.

“You visit as often as you can, Merlin, or I’ll just have to come get you,” she said.

“You should!” Merlin said, lighting up at the thought. “You would love it, Gwen. Carthis is beautiful. Well. You’ll have to wait until the throne room’s been repaired. It’s a bit of a mess at the moment.”

“That’s an understatement, Merlin,” Arthur snorted. “Though, come to think of it, it wasn’t as much of a mess as the field you churned up outside the gates.” He gave him a pointed look and Merlin flushed.

“Right. Remind me to fix that before I leave.”

Gwen’s questioning eyebrow prompted a blow-by-blow retelling of the battle, peppered liberally with technical explanations of the spells Merlin had used, which led to anecdotes of Merlin at training, and before they knew it George was knocking at the door to remind Arthur of his tight schedule. The three of them deflated from their companionable high and a slightly awkward silence fell between them. Merlin finally cleared his throat and rose to his feet.

“Well,” he said. “I guess I’d better go. I’ll check on my injured and fix your field first.” His friends stood as well, smoothing their clothes and slipping back into their roles as the royal couple. Gwen hugged Merlin tightly and Arthur slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll be back,” Merlin promised.

“You’d better be,” Arthur said. “Gwaine might actually kill me this time if I drive you off for good.” Merlin chuckled.

“Well, if he gives you trouble, just send me a signal and I’ll set him straight.”

“I might take you up on that.”

They shared a few more promises between them. Gwen insisted on hugging Raime as well, who turned bright red and stammered so much on his thank you that Merlin feared his tongue might fall out of his mouth. Then Merlin headed to the infirmary. He made the rounds of his injured and spoke to Gaius and the healers of their conditions, relieved to find that only one had taken a turn for the worse overnight. He arranged for those who were stable enough to be transported back to Carthis in small groups by those with sufficient power left in their transportation crystals.

Merlin spent an hour or so with Gaius, catching up. Gaius gave profuse apologies for not telling him of Balinor’s royal birth, but Merlin had long since buried his anger on that topic. Instead they discussed Merlin’s research with the Priests and the projects they had planned. Gaius was only too eager to contribute to the discussion and promised to make a trip out to Carthis sometime soon, as soon as the wounded from the battle were treated. Merlin hugged Gaius long and hard, overwhelmed with fondness for the old man he had missed so much.

Then he tracked down each of the knights individually and thanked them for their forgiveness and their support. They all assured him there was nothing to forgive and instead thanked him for all he had done over the years. He got hugs from most of them and a firm handshake from Sir Leon, and each of them extracted the same promise of return visits that Arthur and Gwen had, only Gwaine threatened to disembowel him if he didn’t follow through with it.

Finally, he set off for the gates. Arthur joined him as he passed through the courtyard, falling in step easily. He said it was to verify that the upset field was actually set to rights, but really it was more of an excuse to bump his shoulder against Merlin’s and then chase him down a hill when Merlin bumped him back hard enough to almost knock him off his feet. They were red-faced with laughter by the time they passed the guards at the gates, who looked on with bemusement to see their king and a foreign dignitary in so undignified a contest, but they didn’t care.

They only sobered when they reached the battlefield where crews of men worked to clear the bodies from where they had fallen. The section of ground that Merlin had shaken with his earthquake was mostly free of corpses, with the victims of Merlin’s attack dropped far into the earth where no crew could extract them. Merlin smoothed the ground with a wave of his hand and Arthur shook his head, mouth open in a way that made Merlin squirm a bit in self-consciousness.

The two of them traipsed back to the gate in the companionable silence that Merlin had missed more than anything else. Raime, Gwen, Gaius, and the knights met them just outside the walls. They passed around a final round of hugs and Raime took hold of Merlin’s arm. Merlin looked around at the crowd of his friends, all smiling warmly at him. Arthur inclined his head to Merlin, a gesture of respect Merlin had never dared hope to see so freely and so honestly given. Merlin returned it, his grin almost wide enough to make his cheeks hurt. With a spell, Merlin transported the two of them away, sure that it wasn’t a goodbye at all.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

Merlin knocked quietly on the door to the Court Healer’s chambers. He waited, fidgeting, until a soft feminine voice bid him enter. The door’s hinges creaked as Merlin pushed it open and stepped through. The chamber couldn’t have been more different than the one in Camelot. Gaius’ workspace was always an area of utmost disarray, everything meticulously organized in a pattern discernible only to Gaius. Atticus, who had been the Court Healer of Carthis for a dozen years or more, kept his room spotless and painstakingly arranged. It wasn’t nearly as homey as Gaius’ space, but it had an air of efficiency and cleanliness to it that did nothing to dispel the cheer the old man brought to it with his wide, energetic smile.

Lord Ellison was sprawled out on the patient’s cot near the fire with one arm thrown over his eyes and the other dangling off the side, his hand twitching and jiggling restlessly. He had a bandage wrapped around his head, but he had washed and changed clothes since the day before. Atticus had not yet returned from aiding in the aftermath of the battle in Camelot, so the healer at the workbench was Esla. She looked up at Merlin and smiled welcomingly, giving him a small bow. He smiled back at her.

“Good afternoon, Esla,” he said and Ellison nearly jerked himself off his perch in surprise. “Would you mind giving me a minute with Ellison?”

“Of course, sire, but I would appreciate if you would keep it brief,” she said, beginning to tidy up the materials in front of her and pack vials into a case much like the one Gaius carried, probably intending to go out on rounds. “Lord Ellison needs rest.”

“No, he really doesn’t,” Ellison grumbled. “Lord Ellison needs to get out of this room is what he needs.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t overexert himself,” Merlin said with a smirk at Ellison’s scoff. Esla nodded her thanks and left them alone, tactfully closing the door behind her.

Merlin looked after her for a moment, uncomfortably aware of his cousin and the loss he had suffered. He wasn’t quite sure how to begin this conversation. He took a fortifying breath and pulled up a three legged stool. Ellison was sitting up now but his head was down and his fingers were tight on his knees.

“How are you feeling?” Merlin asked, immediately kicking himself for it.

“I feel well, sire,” Ellison said. He sounded strangely formal, and not in the way he used to that meant he was subtly mocking Merlin’s title. He was almost subdued. “Well enough to be out of here by now, but Esla is a cautious girl.”

“As she should be. Head wounds are tricky, and symptoms of concussion don’t always manifest immediately,” Merlin said. Ellison grunted noncommittally. Merlin shifted on his seat, wondering if he would have felt more prepared to speak to his cousin had he been in his more regal apparel, but he had come straight from Camelot, only stopping to check in with Gerund and Sir Galahad about the state of things. Ellison cleared his throat.

“I thank you for your concern, my Lord,” he said stiffly and without raising his eyes from his lap, “but for what reason have you come?”

Merlin’s brow furrowed in confusion, at Ellison’s behavior as much as at his words.

“Is my concern not reason enough?” Merlin asked.

Ellison’s eyes flicked up for a moment before skittering away, his fingers clenching more tightly into his trouser legs.

“I did not expect you would wish to see me in my shame,” he confessed.

Merlin puzzled over this statement for a long moment before he realized what Ellison meant by it.

“Your shame?” he repeated in surprise. “Ellison, no! You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Ellison shook his head.

“My father betrayed you,” he said, as if that had anything to do with him at all. “He betrayed Carthis and let that vile woman in to injure our people and threaten our peace.”

“And none of that reflects on you.”

Merlin’s insistence must have been fierce enough to give Ellison pause because he looked up, still hesitant. A night of being woken in intervals to keep his concussion under control had left him wan and his eyes were heavily shadowed. The shame Merlin saw in them outweighed the exhaustion, and even his grief. Merlin leaned forward, intent to wipe away that undeserved shame.

“Ellison, you are not to blame for your father’s actions. He made his choice, and that’s on him. But you made a choice too.” Merlin waited long enough to make sure that Ellison met his gaze directly.

“You did me a great honor in that hall, Ellison.” Ellison shook his head and opened his mouth to contradict him, but Merlin didn’t let him. “You did. You were faced with an incredibly powerful and dangerous sorceress and your own father, and yet you stayed true. They offered you wealth and power and authority but you stood your ground. You displayed unbelievable loyalty to your kingdom, and to what is right.

“You were prepared to die for Carthis. For me.” Merlin shook his head, still in shock over it. “Such bravery is rare, and I can never express my gratitude for the loyalty you showed me.”

“But—” Ellison looked stunned and a little bewildered. He seemed honestly taken aback by Merlin’s words, as if he had never considered that his actions might have been noble, honorable, and worthy of commendation.  “But after the way my father and I treated you, after he tried to overthrow you—”

“Yes, he aided an enemy of the kingdom in her attempts to kill me and take over my kingdom,” Merlin said bluntly and Ellison flinched, his cheeks coloring in shame once more. “But, Ellison, you stopped them. I heard what you said, how you defended me. You promised me that you would protect this kingdom with your life, and you proved yourself willing to do that, and do it in my name. That more than makes up for a few months of pettiness, don’t you think?”

Ellison tried to return Merlin’s smile but didn’t quite manage it. Merlin reached out to put a hand on Ellison’s arm, squeezing. “You have proven yourself beyond doubt,” he said warmly, “and I will be proud to call you my cousin.”

That won him a better smile, shaky but genuine. Ellison placed his hand on top of Merlin’s.

“And I would be honored to call you mine,” he said in a voice that shook with sudden emotion. Merlin beamed at him, feeling the tiniest bit misty eyed himself, and Ellison’s smile widened in response.

“You will sit at my right hand at the commemorative feast,” he said.

“No, I couldn’t—”

“You’ve earned it,” Merlin said firmly. “And I won’t hear another word on the subject. The feast is to honor those who fought in the name of Carthis, and you did just that.” Ellison conceded with a rather put-upon sigh, though he couldn’t help but look pleased. Merlin gave his arm another squeeze, then stood. “Well,” he said.

“Well,” Ellison echoed, clearing his throat again.

“Get some sleep, Ellison,” Merlin said. “I want you well rested. Can’t have you addled if you’re to perform your duties.”

Ellison raised an eyebrow. “My duties, sire?”

“You know. Watching over the kingdom when I’m not here,” Merlin said as if it were obvious. “You see, now that relations with Camelot are opening up and Arthur is implementing new policies and programs that deal with magic users, he’s going to need my advice. I’ll probably be spending a good deal of time over there, and I can’t very well leave Carthis without any sort of leadership, can I?”

He laughed at Ellison’s dazed and disbelieving expression. “You did well enough yesterday,” he said. “I figure you can handle being in charge for a day or two at a time. If you haven’t been laid low by a concussion, that is.”

“No, sire,” he breathed. “I mean, yes. Just—” He shook his head. “I’ll do my best, sire.”

“I know you will.”

“What are you going to do now?” Ellison asked, solemn. Merlin heaved a sigh, the weight creeping up on him again.

“Right now? I’ve got condolence letters to write. Forty-three of them.” He ran a hand through his hair, then chuckled weakly. “I considered roping my manservant into helping me with them, but that wouldn’t be right.”

“Why not?”

“They fought and died in my name. Their families deserve a letter in my own hand,” Merlin said simply. “But first? I’ve got a pair of dragons to visit.”

 

\--

 

Merlin didn’t send out his call in the courtyard as he had done two months ago when he sought Kilgharrah’s approval of his kingship. This wasn’t a conversation that needed to be shared with the townsfolk, and he didn’t want Aithusa’s appearance to frighten them. Instead, he rode out past the gates and found a clearing large enough for two dragons to land. He tied his horse a ways back in the trees, and roared his summons to the sky, this time calling not just for Kilgharrah but for Aithusa as well.

It didn’t take long for two silhouettes, one large and one small, to appear against the darkening skyline. Kilgharrah landed more heavily than he usually did, the ground shaking beneath him. His teeth were bared and his nostrils furled with smoke like Merlin had never seen from him before. Aithusa alit beside him, his landing awkward with wings that didn’t quite work properly.

The smaller dragon cowered backward—whether from Kilgharrah’s wrath or from Merlin himself he couldn’t be sure—and croaked in that horribly pitiful way that made Merlin’s eyes smart with tears. He started toward Aithusa, a hand outstretched, but Kilgharrah growled and let loose a small plume of flame. Merlin stumbled back and stared at him in shock. Kilgharrah spread one wing over Aithusa’s smaller form, practically hiding him from Merlin’s view.

“What is the meaning of this, Merlin?” Kilgharrah snarled. “How has this atrocity come to be?” Merlin shook his head, at a loss.

“I don’t know,” he said, the admission alone feeling like a sword to the gut.

How had he not known? How had he not _felt_ it? Surely as a Dragonlord he should have been able to sense when one of his kin was in such pain, but he hadn’t. He hadn’t had the slightest inkling, and he hated himself for not thinking to check. He had not called for Aithusa once since he had been hatched, hadn’t thought he would need to. He had let himself be secure in the knowledge that Aithusa was with his kin, but he had been wrong. He had been so wrong.

“I don’t know,” he said again.

“How have you allowed this to happen?” Kilgharrah demanded, the accusation heavy in his tone.

Merlin bristled, his guilt and his anger pressing against his breastbone until it hurt; he already knew he was responsible for this and he didn’t need to hear it from anyone else, especially not the only other person who could rightfully shoulder the blame.

“ _I_ allowed it?” he responded sharply. “I left him in your care, Kilgharrah! And the next time I saw him, he was taking orders from Morgana. _You_ tell _me_ how it happened.”

“You are a Dragonlord, Merlin. You are responsible for the dragons you hatch.”

“We both knew I couldn’t have taken him to Camelot with me. I couldn’t watch over him, so I left him with you.” He should have called him, though. He should have taken the time to sneak away and check up on him and make sure he was doing well, but he hadn’t. And apparently neither had Kilgharrah. “I thought as his kin you would keep him safe. Why did you even let him out of your sight?”

“A dragon is not meant to be restrained,” Kilgharrah said, haughtiness and disdain seeping in around his anger. “We are illimited creatures. We must fly, we must roam, we must be free to make our own path.”

“And look where that path led him: right into Morgana’s hands!”

Kilgharrah bared his teeth and growled deep in his throat. Merlin held up a hand, ready to shield himself should the dragon decide to punish him for his words, and for his failure to protect the hatchling, with fire.

A strangled sort of howl sounded from under Kilgharrah’s wing, drawing both their attention away from each other. Aithusa limped from under his cover, tossing his head to dislodge Kilgharrah’s wing and looking highly distressed. Merlin went to him, ignoring Kilgharrah’s threatening stance this time, and laid a hand upon his flank.

Aithusa’s scales were dry and brittle, flaking off in places to reveal raw-looking pink skin underneath. His wings were too thin and shot through with darker scar tissue, the edges tattered and irregular. One looked to have been broken and not set properly, stuck at an unnatural angle. Aithusa’s rasping sounds were so unlike Kilgharrah’s smooth speech that Merlin had to examine his neck for marks of possible strangulation, some sign of the trauma that had taken his voice from him, but he didn’t find any obvious cause.

Merlin would be the first to admit that he didn’t know much about the maturation rates of dragons, but he felt sure that Aithusa was smaller than he should be at almost five years old, not even the size of a sturdy horse. When his trailing hand reached Aithusa’s snout, the dragon turned into him, dull and filmy eyes closing.

“Oh, Aithusa,” Merlin breathed. “What happened to you?” Aithusa made another noise, a fruitless attempt to communicate. Merlin wondered if Aithusa’s mental growth had been stunted as well, if he would be able to speak fluently if his voice were functional, but he had no way of knowing.

“What could have caused this sort of damage?” Merlin asked, pushing aside his anger and his shame for later and raising his voice so that Kilgharrah could hear him. “What did Morgana do to him?”

Kilgharrah’s answer was forestalled by another cry from Aithusa, even more distressed than before. He shook his head over and over again, croaking. Merlin stepped back, bewildered at his strange behavior. He shared a look with Kilgharrah, who appeared to be just as baffled by it. Then Kilgharrah leaned in close, his head almost laid upon the ground so that he could look Aithusa in the eye. Kilgharrah’s inquiry echoed inside Merlin’s head and Merlin nearly hit himself in the forehead for not thinking to try it before, but there was no reply.

Merlin deflated; of course speaking mind to mind didn’t work. If Aithusa had been capable of it then he would have been using it by now. After all, Aithusa was hardly more than a child in human years, making him a mere babe in arms in the face of how long dragons could live. Having the mental and magical control necessary to broadcast his thoughts was likely beyond him at this stage, especially with no one to teach him how. Kilgharrah heaved a sigh.

“What is it, young one?” he repeated aloud with more gentleness than Merlin had thought possible. “What disturbs you so?”

Aithusa whined, shifting on the spot in his agitation but unable to communicate. Merlin thought back a few moments. Aithusa had been perfectly docile until he had asked what had happened, what Morgana had done to him. Something about that question had set Aithusa off.

“Morgana?” Merlin asked, and Aithusa bobbed his head up and down. “What about her?” Aithusa made a noise that, despite being unintelligible, still managed to convey frustration and irritation pretty clearly. Merlin decided it would probably be most effective to restrict himself to yes or no questions. “Did she hurt you?” Aithusa shook his head frantically. Merlin frowned. That didn’t make any sense. “Someone else did this to you?” he tried instead. Aithusa nodded.

Merlin frowned harder. “How did you end up with Morgana then? Wait, no, you can’t answer that. Let’s see… Have you been with Morgana long?” A nod. “Since you left Kilgharrah?” Another nod. Merlin huffed in frustration of his own, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “Then how did you get injured by someone other than her if you were with her that whole time?”

Kilgharrah breathed out a long puff of smoke, sitting back on his haunches and narrowing his eyes in calculation.

“Aithusa,” he said slowly. “Did Morgana suffer alongside you?”

Merlin looked up at him in surprise, then quickly turned back to Aithusa. The small dragon nodded again and Merlin felt like a weight had been swung into his stomach.

It didn’t seem possible. Aithusa was young and small, no matter that he was of a strong and proud race. It wasn’t too hard to think of ways to capture a dragon hatchling, but Morgana had been immensely powerful and clever as well. Capturing her, and keeping her for the length of time necessary to do the sort of damage that had been done to Aithusa, would not have been easy.

It sent a thrill of fear down Merlin’s spine. He ached to know more, to ask questions and get answers to them, but Aithusa couldn’t tell him. And as much damage as Morgana had done, as far as she had fallen, Merlin didn’t relish the thought of her in pain. He may have been the one to end her life, but he had never wanted her to suffer. In desperation, he turned to Kilgharrah.

“Can this be undone?” he asked. “Is there a way to heal him?”

“There are no wounds to heal,” Kilgharrah said mournfully. “The damage was done long ago and all that is left are scars. Scars cannot be healed.”

“They have to be,” Merlin said, all but begging. “There must be a way. Something, anything. Just tell me and I’ll find a way to do it.”

“I’m afraid there is nothing any mortal can do to reverse this.”

“Any mortal?” Merlin repeated, latching on to the qualification. “Then I will appeal to a higher power, to the powers of the Old Religion itself.”

“The Old Religion will not readily grant services to humans, Merlin,” Kilgharrah said. “The favor of the gods and goddesses are reserved for a precious few.”

“What of my great destiny, which the Old Religion grants me?” Merlin asked. “If they will not hear the petition of Emrys, then of who? Kilgharrah, you said yourself when Aithusa was hatched that he was a good omen, that his birth was the beginning of something important. The light of the sun.” Merlin gestured to the pitiful sight that had become of that pure, innocent creature. “Why would that name have come to me if it wasn’t significant? Perhaps the Old Religion will not grant my request, but it might. If there’s even a chance of setting this right, then I have to try.”

Kilgharrah didn’t respond, troubled eyes on Aithusa.

“Besides,” Merlin added, “this raises another problem.”

“And what problem is that?” Kilgharrah asked.

“Someone caught and held a dragon and Morgana both,” Merlin pointed out to him. “I think it would be in our best interests to determine who they are, how they managed it, and why.”

Kilgharrah looked at him steadily for a long moment.

“Give me a few days to think on how to proceed,” he said eventually. “Reversing this damage will not be an easy process, especially on a creature as magical and magic-resistant as a dragon. There is little that can affect us. I fear the power of a god may be necessary.”

Merlin swallowed but held his head high. If a deity was needed, then he would find one and he would procure their help.

Kilgharrah lifted himself upright once more, preparing to lift off. “I will call for you when I determine what path to follow.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Merlin said, bowing his head. Kilgharrah nodded back, which was as near to an apology for his earlier accusations as Merlin was likely to get.

Merlin stayed in the clearing for several long minutes after Kilgharrah disappeared into the night with Aithusa following jerkily in his wake. Then he turned back toward the castle. There was nothing he could do about this new mystery now. Instead, there were condolence letters to write, stipends to see distributed, and a speech to write.

 

\--

 

The next evening, Merlin sat at the high table at the head of the largest banquet hall. Raime had finally managed to wrestle him into the finest and most exquisitely expensive clothes he could dig up out of the wardrobe, no matter how much Merlin grumbled and complained about it. The deep blue velvet of his double matched the blue of the wall hangings and tapestries along the walls and Merlin had to admit he looked every inch a king, especially with his formal crown settled comfortably on his brow.

The long tables on either side of the hall were laden with enough food to make them groan and lined with people. A multitude of tall candles burned brightly around the chamber, the flames sometimes winking different colors or lifting off of their wicks as someone or other showed off the trick they had learned to the laughter and applause of their tablemates.  Wine flowed freely for all and spirits were high, everyone relishing in the lightness that came with the end of long worry.

Lord Ellison was seated at Merlin’s right hand, dressed richly and with his long hair tied back with a ribbon. There was a bruise showing across his jaw from where he had hit the floor after Morgana had blasted him, but his head was no longer wrapped in bandages and he seemed to have slept better last night than he had the night before. He still looked a bit reluctant at the honor of his placement at the table, but he was smiling around at the crowd of happy courtiers with a fierce sort of pride that Merlin was very glad to see. Seeing that look, Merlin wasn’t surprised in the least that Ellison had defied his father for the sake of the kingdom. Ellison loved Carthis more than anything, that much was very obvious.

Sir Gerund sat at Merlin’s left, in his ceremonial chainmail and cloak. The older man had a smile on his face that made him look ten years younger and somehow less burdened than Merlin had ever seen him. He too loved Carthis, and the threat that had hung over her for so long was removed. Carthis was safe and secure with a leader who had proven himself, and that was all Gerund needed to let himself relax and enjoy the feast. He was tucking into his meal with gusto and keeping up a stream of stories and anecdotes for Mordred on his other side. Mordred, also in his mage’s apparel, laughed, throwing his head back.

Merlin had to smile at the sight, immeasurably grateful for the decision he had made to bring Mordred with him, no matter for what reasons that decision had been made. If it hadn’t been, Merlin would never have been able to see Mordred so happy, so unrestrained and uninhibited.

Mordred’s life had been shadowed by Morgana too. She may have been dear to him once, almost a mother figure when he was youngest, but whatever love they’d had had soured. With her madness and her hatred, she had turned her back on everything Mordred had looked up to in her. And by the end, Mordred had feared her. Now that the love was gone and the fear was lifted, Mordred could finally be free of her influence. Merlin leaned forward to speak over Gerund.

“Mordred, where have you been?” he asked, thinking back over the last two days. “I expected to see you after the battle, but you weren’t anywhere I could find.”

Mordred shifted in his seat and took a drink of his wine before answering.

“Lady Cecily took a hit during the fight,” he said. “I was tending to her.” Merlin raised an eyebrow, but Mordred was busy cutting up his roast pheasant and didn’t see.

“I was in the infirmary for a good while after,” he said, “and I didn’t see her in there.” Sir Gerund smirked and leaned back in his seat to give Merlin direct line of sight, taking his goblet with him and looking like he was settling in for a show.

“My healing skills may not be anything to brag about,” Mordred said, still focusing on his wine and his food instead of Merlin whose grin was growing by the second, “but they were sufficient for a smaller injury such as hers.”

“And where exactly were you treating her if not in the infirmary?” Merlin asked. Gerund chuckled and Mordred fidgeted again.

“I took her to my chambers,” he admitted, then he hurried on before Merlin could crow in victory. “I mean, the chambers I occupied as a knight. I knight of Camelot, that is. Arthur was still expecting me back, after all, so he hadn’t had them reassigned, and the infirmary was so full that it was just cleaner and quieter and she could rest easier there.” Merlin hummed his agreement, sipping innocently at his own wine. “Stop looking like that!” Mordred snapped, scowling, but his cheeks were pink. “There was nothing indecorous!”

“I never said there was!” Merlin protested, affecting a scandalized tone.

“There’s nothing between me and Cecily,” Mordred said.

“You’re blushing,” Merlin countered.

Mordred’s face darkened further and Gerund laughed out loud, slapping the arm of his chair with the hand not holding his drink. Mordred turned to glare at him, and then at Merlin, who was still trying to look innocent and failing miserably at holding in his mischievous amusement. Finally he returned to his meal, grumbling mutinously under his breath.

“See if I come to your aid when the council starts talking about heirs,” he said, and Merlin promptly choked on his wine. He spluttered and coughed as Gerund practically roared with laughter and Mordred preened in triumph at getting his own back.

Ellison thumped Merlin on the back, valiantly attempting to suppress his own sniggering. Once Merlin was no longer in danger of suffocating—though he thought he still might spontaneously combust from the heat in his face and neck—Ellison came to the rescue with a change of subject.

“Speaking of heirs and children,” he said, ignoring Merlin’s noise of distress, “when is your mother coming to court? I’ve been looking forward to meeting her.”

“As have I,” Gerund put in. “Any woman who could leave Balinor pining for twenty years or more is someone worth knowing.” Merlin cringed.

“Er, yes, see, about that,” he stammered. “I haven’t really—I mean, she doesn’t—it’s just—well—”

“Sentences, Merlin,” Mordred put in helpfully. “Words usually make sentences.”

“I haven’t...actually... _told_ her yet,” he admitted in a mumble. The three of them gaped at him. He cringed some more.

“You _what_?” Mordred let out, rather more loudly than was probably wise considering they were in a hall full of people.

“I know, I know!” Merlin cried. “I’m a horrible son!”

“Damn right you are,” Ellison said. “How can you not have told your mother?”

“I haven’t had the time,” Merlin objected. “I’ve been a little busy, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Too busy to send her a letter?” Gerund asked.

“Oh, like I can put any of this in a letter,” Merlin scoffed. “And besides, she deserves to hear it from me.”

“Well, what _have_ you been telling her, if not what’s actually going on?” Ellison asked.

“Nothing,” Merlin sighed. “I haven’t actually seen my mother in four years, and it’s not unusual for us to go several months without communication. And even when I did send her letters, I censored them.”

“Why would you do that?” Gerund asked. Merlin gave him a look.

“Seriously? Why wouldn’t I tell her exactly what goes on in my life?” Merlin laughed. “Like all the times I’ve risked execution or faced down a dangerous beast or went up against an assassin or otherwise stared death in the face?” He shook his head. “No, my mother worries enough as it is. My life in Camelot was more than a little bit dangerous. I didn’t need to give her any more nightmares.”

“You’ve been a king for over two months. She should probably hear about that.”

“I know, but she deserves to hear it directly from me,” Merlin repeated, “not from a letter. And I couldn’t just send a delegation of guards over to bring her here. How would I have explained that before I explained everything? No, I need the time to go to her myself, sit her down, and have a nice long chat about it all. _Then_ I will invite her to live in the court.”

“You say that like you don’t think she’ll take it up,” Mordred said.

“I don’t know,” Merlin said with a shrug. “She’s a simple woman, really, very practical. She’s lived most of her life in a farming village. I don’t know how well she’d take to a life of luxury and leisure and servants.”

“But it would be a secure life with you,” Gerund pointed out. “As a parent, she couldn’t want anything more.”

“If she wants to live here, she’ll be more than welcome. But I won’t insist if she’d rather stay where she is,” Merlin said. “I offered a few times to set her up in Camelot, but she said it was no place for her. She may be more inclined to move here or she may not. Either way, it’s her choice. And I will give it to her as soon as I have the opportunity, once things have settled down.”

“I have a feeling they’ll settle down quickly after this,” Gerund said. “After all, the war is over. You’re mending the rift with Camelot. The council has found their faith in you. All is well.” He gestured out over the room.

The Lords and Ladies in their finery were laughing and chatting amiably, a number of knights had their tankards in the air and had started up a song, a pair of mages were trying to one-up each other were light tricks while their peers cheered them on. Every person in the hall had a smile on his or her face, even those who had lost someone just a few days ago. A few people caught Merlin’s eye as he observed them all, and they beamed at him and bowed their heads. When Merlin came to Sir Galahad, the knight rose to his feet and lifted his cup to Merlin.

“A toast!” the young knight called. “A toast to our King. He led us to victory against the darkest force we have yet seen. When he struck down Morgana Pendragon, he struck a blow against all the evil in this world.” Cheers rang out around the hall and tankards clanged against the tables.

“To King Merlin,” Galahad cried, and the call was taken up by every voice in the hall.

They all drank to him and Gerund nudged at Merlin’s side until he got to his feet. Merlin stood staring as the hall gradually fell silent, an awed smile on his face at the thought that this was his life. This was his kingdom, his hall, his subjects. They were happy and safe and they would raise their glasses to him with joy in their hearts.

Merlin opened his mouth, but his throat was too tight to speak. He coughed and ducked his head a moment, gathering himself, and heard a few chuckles from those closest to him.

“I thank you all for your esteem,” he said, loudly and clearly so that his words carried throughout the chamber. “I am honored that you find me worthy of it. When Sir Gerund first tracked me down a little over two months ago and told me I was a prince, I thought he was mad.”

More people laughed and Merlin smiled. “Really, I did. I thought there was no way in hell I could ever have anything to do with royalty, other than pouring their drinks and making their beds. I was convinced that was all I was fit for, all I would ever be fit for. I thought me playing at being a king could only ever end in disaster.”

The hall was quiet, every face turned toward him. Even Gerund and Mordred looked surprised by the admission, and they were the ones who had heard his fears from the beginning. Gerund had witnessed his shock and his panic, and Mordred had been the one to talk him down after his coronation. Even Ellison had known that Merlin doubted himself, had been told as much when Merlin appealed to him for his support, but Merlin had worked so hard to keep the cracks from showing, to keep from looking weak even to those closest to him. Now Merlin confessed to his fears and his insecurities freely, laid them out before his court and his people. And he smiled.

“Barely a week ago, I came before my council and I proposed that we send aid to a kingdom which has been diametrically opposed to our very existence for decades,” he said, his voice ringing, “to defend them against the most powerful witch this land has ever encountered. And they hung their hopes on me and agreed. And now, just a few days later, the battle is over.”

The crowd cheered once more and Merlin let them for a moment, raising his hand for quiet only when the ruckus had mostly died down on its own.

“Our enemy has been defeated,” Merlin said, “but that is no reason to celebrate.” He scanned the crowd to see expressions of confusion and skepticism. “The taking of a life is not in itself a victory,” he declared, his conviction in this belief lending him strength. “Death is a tragedy, no matter the victim, and that will never change. Every life is valuable and every life is worth saving.

“But sometimes the continuance of one life endangers others. And that is when a line must be drawn and action taken, no matter how much that action may pain us.”

Merlin met Mordred’s eyes and saw the tears there, remnants of a time when he had loved Morgana, had looked up to her.

“Morgana was once my dear friend,” Merlin confessed, earning gasps from those who had not yet heard the full story of Merlin’s life in Camelot, or of Morgana’s origins there.

“She was once a kind and compassionate soul, dedicated to justice and mercy. It was fear and alienation that darkened her so. Her fear festered and turned to hatred and her determination became obsession. In her drive to do what she believed to be right, she lost sight of herself and her true aims. She died a truly broken woman, and that saddens me more than I can say.

“But I cannot regret the actions I took against her. Misguided though she may have been, a victim of circumstance in her own right, she was still dangerous. Hundreds of lives were lost to her machinations, and I cannot regret that no more will ever be lost to her callousness.

“That is what we are celebrating today,” Merlin insisted. “Not the destruction of a tortured soul, but the newfound security of those who once lived in fear. The threat Morgana presented has been a pall over the kingdoms of this land for far too long. That veil is lifting, my friends, and it will take with it much of the stigma we have borne all these long years.

“Morgana is not the only enemy we no longer need fear,” Merlin said, smiling now. “The kingdom of Camelot has long been hostile to those associated with magic. Even before Uther Pendragon instigated the Great Purge and wiped sorcery from his lands, Camelot and Carthis had not had the best of relations.

“And I tell you now that this will change. With Arthur Pendragon comes a new era, one of peace and understanding between our two kingdoms, free from the misconceptions and prejudice of his father’s reign. King Arthur even now plans his journey here. There will be no more fear and no more ignorance, no more of the hatred Morgana claimed she would end whilst killing any who disagreed with her.

“Arthur does not claim innocence,” Merlin told them, seeing the doubt and indecision on some faces, the anger many held toward the Pendragon line. “He understands the wrongs he has done our kind and he seeks redemption. Soon he will open his gates once more to the magic users his father drove out and he will welcome them. In turn, I will welcome him here and take the hand of friendship he extends to us now.

“The battle is over and the war won. We have lived in a time of great darkness, but every night must come to an end. Now we must look forward to the light.”

Merlin picked up his goblet and waved Raime forward to fill it before turning back to the crowd before him.

“Tonight we honor those who gave their lives in this fight,” he said. “We drink in their names. We remember their sacrifice and we give thanks for the lives they have saved with it. Tonight we think back on all those who have lost their lives in this turmoil. And tonight we rejoice that we have a chance to create a better future.”

He bowed his head in respect to the fallen, and all those in the chamber did the same. After a moment of solemn silence, Merlin raised his head again and lifted his goblet high. The scraping of chairs echoed throughout the chamber as everyone rose to stand with him, goblets held aloft. Merlin drank and his people drank with him, toasting to the fallen and the living, to the past and the future, to Morgana and to Arthur and to Merlin their King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been an epic undertaking and I am so pleased and satisfied to have dedicated 2+ years of my life to working on it. I'll take a moment to thank each and every person who has read and commented on it and been so encouraging!! You guys are so great and I love you all! <3
> 
> THE SEQUEL IS NOW OFFICIALLY IN THE WORKS.  
> THIS IS NOT A DRILL, FOLKS. IT IS BEING WRITTEN.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * Constructive criticism
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> [LLF Comment Builder](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/post/170952243543/now-presenting-the-llf-comment-builder-beta)
>   * This author replies to comments.
> 



End file.
